


Stray Sparks II

by LadyRhiyana



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Weird and wonderful flights of fancy, Zoolander references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:21:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 44,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26293324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRhiyana/pseuds/LadyRhiyana
Summary: More Jaime-centric GoT and ASOIAF drabbles and one-shots. Will probably be mostly AU, and mostly Jaime/Brienne.**Chapter 36:"I met a bloke at the pub last night,” her father said cheerfully.(5 times Selwyn tried to set Brienne up with various Lannisters)
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 1285
Kudos: 709





	1. La Belle Dame Sans Merci (modern AU, magical realism)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi All, and welcome to Stray Sparks II. As with its predecessor, this is where I'll throw all my weird and wonderful AUs, and generally things under 1000 words. 
> 
> Please enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hang on," Brienne said. "Do you expect me to believe – what? Jaime is cursed?”
> 
> “Yes.” Tyrion nodded. “Exactly. Any person who asks him to marry them has to undertake five great quests.”
> 
> She stared at him. “What, like, knightly quests?”

**Prologue**

The first time Brienne brought up the subject of marriage – a throwaway hint, easily laughed away – Jaime only grinned and turned the subject.

Brienne tried not to take it personally. It was early days, after all; they’d only been together for a year.

The second time, two years later, he distracted her with kisses before she could get to the m-word. By the time she came up for breath, sated and worn out, she’d forgotten all about it and drifted off to sleep with a smile on her face.

The third time, she would not be put off.

They were swimming on her father’s private beach on Tarth, and the sunset reflected in the silken-smooth water was rose pink and gold and deep azure. Brienne looked at Jaime, waist-deep in the water, silhouetted against the sinking sun, and she _knew_.

“Jaime,” she said, her heart full of love and utterly unguarded, “Will you m-”

“No!” he cried, his eyes going wide and his expression horrified. He stumbled away from her, put his hands out as if warding her off. 

**

Two weeks and nearly fifty messages and missed calls later, Brienne finally answered Tyrion’s call.

“I told you, I don’t want to talk to –”

“It’s me,” Jaime said.

She cut off her angry snarl. His voice was so familiar, beloved even now – she had to close her eyes and breathe in deeply before she could speak.

“What do you want, Jaime?” she asked, trying not to cry.

“I want to marry you,” he said.

“Well it didn’t seem like that on Tarth!”

“Brienne –” he sighs. “I love you. And I do want to marry you. But – it’s complicated. It’s not you, it’s me.”

She hung up on him.

**

Two weeks after that, she sat across from Tyrion in a coffee-shop in some ridiculous sea-side village in the Stormlands, simply because it was equidistant between Tarth and King’s Landing. 

He had a briefcase with him, and glasses perched on the edge of his nose. This was Tyrion in Negotiator Mode. At any other time, Brienne would have smiled fondly at him; she really had liked Jaime’s little brother.

“My brother is many things,” Tyrion said, “but he’s not a liar. He does love you. And the problem lies very much with him.”

“If you’re talking about that time he and Cersei almost –”

“No, gods, not that,” Tyrion looked horrified. “This is something else. You know that we Lannisters of the Rock can trace our descent back –”

“ – Four thousand years to the Age of Heroes, to Lann the Clever, yes.” Brienne rolled her eyes. “I’ve heard your father holding forth.”

“To the War of Five Kings, I was going to say,” Tyrion said primly. “To one of our more notorious forebears, the Kingslayer – another Jaime Lannister. Legend says that _his_ sister – another Cersei – was so possessive that she paid a woods witch to put a spell on him. The witch meant to curse only the Kingslayer, but instead she cursed him and every man – or woman – who would ever bear that name. Needless to say, _Jaime_ soon fell out of favour at Lannister christenings – ”

“Hang on. Do you expect me to believe – what? Jaime is cursed?”

“Yes.” Tyrion nodded. “Exactly. Any person who asks him to marry them has to undertake five great quests.”

She stared at him. “What, like, knightly quests?”

“Who knows? The Kingslayer lived over a thousand years ago. Ancient legend says his wife had to travel into the frozen north to fight ghosts and demons and ice-spiders with a flaming sword. The annals of Casterly Rock say the husband of Lady Jaime Lannister – 700 years ago – had to travel east of the sun and west of the moon and pluck a feather from a firebird’s tail.”

“Tyrion, I swear – if you’re pulling my leg –” 

“200 years ago,” Tyrion said with grinning relish, “Lady Elayne Lannister – nee Tyrell – was almost eaten by crocodiles whilst exploring in darkest Sothyros. She did return to Westeros after discovering a vast city of gold, though – which did much to endear her to her good-father at the time.”

“Oh, piss off,” she sighed, pulling her bag over her shoulder and rising to her feet.

“Wait!” He caught her hand. “I’m not messing with you. The curse does exist. Jaime simply thought he could circumvent it by never speaking of marriage.”

**

Just over a month after that terrible, never-to-be-spoken-of-again day on Tarth, Brienne went back to the King’s Landing apartment she shared with Jaime.

He greeted her with a slow, lingering kiss. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, as he cupped her cheek in his hand. “I should have told you.’

She put her hand over his, leaned into him, breathing in his familiar scent. 

“Why didn’t you?” she asked, sliding her arms around his waist. He was stronger than his golden beauty would suggest – _strong enough_ , as he’d laughingly said when they first tumbled into bed.

“I tried. I just – it seems so ridiculous, in this day and age. Would you have believed me, if I told you I was cursed?”

“…no.” She sighed. “No, I would have thought –”

He’d seemed to have everything, when they first met – money, biting intelligence, and outrageous good looks. It had taken her a long time to accept that he really was interested in her, and even longer to stop comparing herself unfavourably to all the women he could have had for the lifting of a finger.

Jaime simply wasn’t interested in anyone but Brienne.

“ – never mind.” It was no longer important.

They stood pressed together just inside the door, simply breathing each other in.

Finally, she disentangled herself, picked up her suitcase and went into the lounge. Nothing had changed since they’d last been here together, on that morning before their trip to Tarth; her magazine was still carelessly tossed over the coffee table; his scarf was still thrown over the back of the couch.

“Okay.” She squared her shoulders. “I want to marry you. I’m willing to go north to fight ice-spiders, or hunt down mythical beasts, or wrestle crocodiles if I have to.”

“Gods.” Jaime laughed. “Tyrion always did find too much enjoyment in this.”

“So how does it work?”

“I’m not sure. Somehow, you’ll be sent on five great quests. If you survive them all, then – well, I suppose we’ll be free to be married.”

“Just like that.” She frowned. “No frightful woods-witch to send me off on a dread journey? No mystical greenseer to provide some helpful exposition?”

He shrugged. “Just like that, I suppose.”

**

**1.**

**

They found out two nights later.

She called him just as she was leaving work. “I’m going to pick up some take-out for dinner,” she said. “Anything you’d prefer?”

“How about Yi-Ti?” he asked. She could hear the warm smile in his voice. “Is that place on Visenya’s Hill still open? I want some of that chef’s dumplings.”

At the time, she thought nothing of the strange frisson that sparked across her nerves; a spider, she thought, brushing her shoulders, or maybe a sudden chill.

She arrived at the location of their favourite Yi-Ti restaurant, only to be told that the chef who made Jaime’s favourite dumplings had quit and opened his own restaurant in Highgarden.

She rang Jaime, opened her mouth to tell him that he would have to be satisfied with inferior dumplings, and found herself saying: “I’m going to Highgarden.”

“What?” he said. “Why?!”

“To get your favourite dumplings,” she said. “The chef has opened his own restaurant.”

“Brienne, you know I don’t expect –”

“No,” she babbled, frantically waving down a taxi, “no, Jaime, I have to get your favourite dumplings.”

“Brienne!”

“I’ll probably be back late,” she said. “Don’t wait up!”

She raced to the airport, bought a ticket on the first flight out to Highgarden, tracked down the chef and his new restaurant and bought two dozen dumplings.

She got back to King’s Landing over twelve hours later, tired and cranky.

The dumplings had long since gone cold.

**

“Okay,” Jaime said. “That was – that was probably the first quest. So do you remember what triggered it?”

She frowned at him. “I remember very clearly. You said – ‘I want’. And suddenly I had to get it for you, no matter what.”

“But that’s –” he threw up his hands. “That’s ridiculous!”

“It wasn’t ridiculous when I was going from restaurant to restaurant in Highgarden,” she muttered.

They looked at the plate of dumplings.

“Thank you, though,” Jaime said solemnly. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and he leaned over and kissed her. “No one else has ever done _anything_ like this for me.”

Suddenly, Brienne had to laugh. “Fine,” she said. “You’re welcome.”

They reheated the dumplings and ate every single one.

**

**2.**

**

A week later, it happened again.

They were at a bar, and growing increasingly irritated by the braying laughter and coarse comments coming from a nearby table.

“I want someone to punch that cunt Connington in the mouth,” he mused.

The moment after the words were spoken, Brienne got to her feet and lumbered over to that cunt Connington and his group of hangers-on. He looked up at her, his eyes widening, and then said with a dawning smile: “Why, look, it’s Brienne the B– ”

She smashed her fist into his jaw. He went down like a ton of bricks, staggering into a bar table and crashing to the floor. Women screamed and the men surrounding him cried out.

“Somebody call the cops!” someone shouted. The bouncers started towards her, massive shoulders hunched and ready for trouble.

Jaime grabbed her wrist, his eyes wide. “Quick, let’s get out of here,” he said.

**

One phone call to Tyrion and a generous splash of Lannister money later, Jaime said: “Okay. So it only happens when I say ‘I want’. Right?”

Brienne looked up from the ice-pack she was wrapping around her knuckles. She tried to look severe, but a tiny smile kept threatening to escape; it had felt good to see Connington staggering back, his eyes comically wide.

“Well, I’ll just have to be very careful and mind my words.” He grinned. “No more punching people or sending you on mad journeys. Promise.”

**




**

For a time, he was very careful about it.

He tried out phrases such as “may I have” or “would you please”. He tried not to express his preferences. He was on his best behaviour.

And then one night, as she was brushing her teeth and getting ready for bed, he strolled up behind her, bare-chested and wearing only a pair of red boxer shorts, and wrapped his arm around her waist.

“I’ve had an idea,” he said. “Maybe there’s a way we can use the curse to our advantage. But – only if you’re willing, of course?”

She eyed him suspiciously in the mirror. His eyes were bright green and filled with laughing excitement.

Slowly, she finished brushing her teeth, spat and rinsed her mouth out. When she turned, he did not step back, so that her body brushed deliberately against his.

“What did you have in mind?” she asked.

He lowered his head and whispered in her ear, being very careful not to say ‘I want’. His breath was warm and his voice rumbled and sent shivers through her; she felt surrounded by him – a feeling she always enjoyed, no matter that she was two inches taller and her shoulders just as broad.

“That sounds –” she swallowed. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s try it.”

**




**

But then, of course, Jaime slipped up. It couldn’t be helped.

They were half-buzzed, slumped against each other on the couch watching an old documentary on Jacques Cousteau.

“Do you know,” Jaime said, as they watched the great Myrish adventurer strap on his diving equipment and slip into the water with his camera. The footage changed to an underwater coral reef blazing with colour, bright fishes flitting this way and that. “One of my ancestors, Gerion Lannister, ventured into the Smoking Sea, once. He was searching for our long-lost Valyrian steel sword.”

“I thought House Lannister had a Valyrian steel sword.” Snuggled against Jaime, she yawned and brushed her cheek over his shoulder. “Widow’s Weeping or something.”

“No,” he said lazily. “Widow’s Wail was just a sword old Tywin the Magnificent stole from another House. The circumstances were very discreditable. I mean the real sword of House Lannister. Its name was Brightroar, and King Tommen the Third took it with him when he went to conquer Old Valyria.”

“I take it that didn’t go so well?”

His shoulders shook. “Lost without a trace. Just like poor adventurous Gerion.” He took a sip of beer. “One day I want to see someone retrieve poor Brightroar. Wouldn’t that be something.”

He closed his eyes, yawned, and drifted off into sleep.

**

The next day he called Tyrion, half-frantic. “Brienne’s not picking up her phone,” he said. “Where is she! What did I say last night?”

“Don’t worry, brother,” Tyrion said, sounding entirely too amused. “She’s on a plane. But I’ve arranged everything. The best crew and equipment Lannister money can buy.”

“But –” he sputtered. “What do you mean, on a plane? Where is she going? And what do you mean, crew and equipment?”

“Jaime.” Tyrion tutted, and Jaime could imagine him shaking his head in mock-reproof, his eyes gleaming. “Don’t you remember watching an old documentary on the Smoking Sea? Don’t you remember saying that you want someone to find our long-lost Valyrian steel sword?”

“Oh, gods.” Jaime fisted his hands in his curls and tugged in frustration. “Do you mean she’s actually –”

“This time, she had the common sense to call me before dashing to the airport. I arranged a private jet to Volantis. From there, I’ve chartered a boat and a crew to take her to the Smoking Sea. I’ve also thrown money at the leading expert in old Gerion Lannister’s last voyage, who is, of course, our cousin Daven –”

“Daven’s going with her?” Jaime let out a long sigh of relief. “Seven Hells. At least he won’t let her come to any harm.” 

“But Jaime,” Tyrion said, “is there anything stopping you from going _with_ her on the quest?”

**

Jaime flew out after her on another private jet.

They spent three long months in the sun, diving and exploring in the Smoking Sea.

[Thankfully, more than a thousand years after the Doom of Valyria, it was no longer poisonous.]

Jaime grew tanned and shaggy, too lazy to shave, and Brienne’s freckles multiplied and her hair grew bleached white, and she smiled with careless ease, laughing every night with Jaime beneath the moon and the stars.

When they finally found the wrecks of old King Tommen’s ships, when they finally retrieved the ancient sword Brightroar, they were almost disappointed to return home.

**




**

“Let’s just get this over with,” Brienne said. “You know there has to be a fifth quest. Tell me you want a glass of water or something.”

He frowned at her. “That’s hardly romantic.”

“Jaime, I’ve had enough of quests and curses and ancient Lannister history to last me a lifetime. I just want to get it over with and get married.”

“Fine.” He considered her, a laughing, untrustworthy smile curling his lips. “How about this. I want a house for us to live in,” he said. “A nice house, with a backyard, and lots of room for kids and family and friends – oh, and a dog. I want a dog too.”

He smiled. “So? Are you going to go and get them for me?”

**

Two months later, they were married in the backyard of their new house. All their families and friends were present, even Tywin, who looked utterly out of place in such a suburban setting.

Their dog, a bright, foolish, joyous golden retriever, bounded about their legs and barked delightedly.

“Promise me one thing,” Brienne said. “We’re not naming any of our children _Jaime_.”

“But I thought it was so romantic,” he argued. “The way you went to the ends of the earth for me.”

“No,” she said firmly.

Although, secretly, she did too. Just a little.

**

[“Oh, very well,” Brienne said when their third child, a daughter, was born.]


	2. Five Unfinished Fic Fragments (+1 that might see the light of day)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin.
> 
> (Or; in which I rummage through my WIP folder and dust a few things off to share.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of modern AU fun, some J&B gen, a post-canon on Tarth ficlet, a little bit of angst and a hint of crack - hopefully you find these fragments interesting, despite their being unfinished. 
> 
> #4 "Here at the end of all things" is Jaime/Cersei. Feel free to skip that one if you prefer. 
> 
> The rest are all J/B or at least J&B.

**

**#1 - Alternate unfinished version of “To a Distant Stranger”**

**[I eventually took the fic in another direction]**

******

PROLOGUE

**

He saw her in the crowd at every concert.

When he played, he played for her. When he sang, he threw the words at her, half-imploring, half-defiant.

**

Afterwards, he always searched for her – but he never, ever found her. She was gone, vanished into the night, as if she were no more than a dream.

**

“Jaime,” Tyrion said, “you’ve got to let her go.”

“I can’t.” Jaime was curled up on the balcony of his penthouse suite, staring moodily at the lights of the city below, brooding. He was plucking idle chords and notes on his guitar, singing under his breath.

From what Tyrion could hear, it was a small, beautiful song. A deceptively simple melody; wistful lyrics. Stripped back, with no flourishes – 

Brienne had always liked Jaime’s more heartfelt songs.

“Much as I appreciate the music that your break-ups have inspired – and believe me, _Poison_ was particularly inspired –”

Jaime threw him a wry look.

“– it’s been six months. She knows where you are and how to find you. Surely if she’d wanted to get in touch with you, she would have tried to contact you by now.”

“She’s stubborn,” Jaime said. “Well, so am I.” He put the guitar aside suddenly, stood up – a quick, restless movement. “I’m going to find her,” he announced, his eyes bright and filled with reckless determination. “I’m going to find her and make her take me back.”

**

1.

**

She recognised him immediately.

He was wearing some sort of ridiculous disguise: skinny jeans, ironic t-shirt and an oversized jacket, with a knitted beanie cap and black-rimmed glasses. He had _fingerless gloves_ on.

But there was no disguising the line of his jaw, or that razor-sharp ironic smile.

She knew the feel of that golden stubble against her skin. Those wide palms and calloused fingers. That mouth.

“Hello, Blue,” he said.

“What are you doing here?” she blurted out, her eyes wide. Her struggling bar near the University of Winterfell was hardly a rock star’s natural milieu.

“I wrote you a song.” There was a battered guitar case slung over his shoulder. “A whole album of them.”

“Well, congratulations,” she said. “I’m sure Tyrion’s over the moon.”

“I want to sing them to you.”

“Jaime –”

“Hey, you,” Sandor growled. “Hipster boy. Are you here for the ad?”

Jaime blinked at her, then his eyes travelled behind her – and up even further – to see Sandor Clegane, co-owner of the bar with Brienne, dressed in scarred black leather and scowling horribly.

“The ad?” Jaime echoed, speculation darting behind those bright green eyes.

“Aye. We’re in need of a bartender during the week and a live act on Friday and Saturday nights.” Sandor looked him up and down, clearly unimpressed. “You look like you’ve never done anything but play acoustic covers in your life –”

Jaime opened his mouth, outraged –

“– but we’ve been advertising for weeks and no one else has answered. If you’re in need of a place to stay, there’s a spare room above the bar.”

“No,” Brienne said.

“Yes,” Jaime countered immediately, smiling his razor-sharp smile. “I’d love to tend your bar and play for your drunken customers.” 

Sandor grunted. “What’s your name, hipster-boy?”

“Jaime,” Brienne hissed.

“Jaime what?” Sandor asked.

“Hill,” Jaime said pleasantly. “Flowers. No – Snow.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” Sandor growled. “Just make sure you turn up for work on time, and if I catch you with your hand in the till I won’t call the police, I’ll just beat you within an inch of your life. Understood?”

**

Jaime moved into the spare room that very night, carrying one duffel bag and his guitar case.

**

**2.**

**

“You’re a shit bartender,” Tormund said fondly, drawing himself a beer and downing it in two great gulps. “You should at least pretend to listen to the customers’ woes.”

Jaime shrugged, plucking idly at his guitar and scribbling down notes. “I don’t give a shit about your woes.” Every now and then he looked up at the television, showing a match between Lannisport and Sunspear. He swore under his breath as the Lions conceded a goal.

It was Monday night, and Tormund was the only customer in the bar. Brienne was in her office, attending to some paperwork, and Sandor was off gods-knew-where.

“You don’t give a shit about anything, do you?” Tormund’s bushy red beard and fur-trimmed jacket made him look like a wildling of old. He liked to boast that one of his distant ancestors had once been a great chieftain of the Free Folk. Of course, he also liked to say that same ancestor had once taken a bear to wife.

“Not really,” Jaime said casually. “Life’s much easier that way.”

“Aye, no doubt.” Tormund took the cloth from over his shoulder and began to wipe down the bar. “But I’ve seen the way you look at the Big Woman. And the way she looks at you.”

He let the unspoken question hang in the air.

Jaime made no response. A thin wisp of elusive melody curled through his mind, and Jaime let his fingers trail over the strings, his mind fixed on Brienne’s soft blue eyes and wary smile.

“That’s nice, what you’re playing now,” Tormund said, after a while. “What’s it about?”

“A blue-eyed girl,” Jaime said absently.

“Thought so.” Tormund grinned.

**

On Tuesday night, a trio of music students came in after their class. A slim red-haired girl with bright blue eyes looked around hopefully and smiled when she saw Sandor. She went over to greet him, standing shyly before him, not deterred by his black-browed glowering.

Jaime’s brows rose. “An odd pairing,” he said thoughtfully.

“Not so odd,” Brienne replied. “Sansa hates liars, and Sandor never speaks anything but the brutal, unvarnished truth.” She slanted a look at Jaime. “Unlike some people I could name.”

Jaime scowled at her. “I never lied to you.”

“You told me you hated _The Rains of Castamere_ but not why. You told me you were a musician, but left out the part about being a rock star. You said you had been arrested in your youth, but not because you incited a riot.”

As if on cue, one of the music students climbed up onto the stage, lifted his violin and began to play an ancient, melancholy air.

Jaime made a face. “If I never hear that bloody song again, I’ll die happy.”

“I know you hate it,” Brienne said, “but it’s one of the classic examples of the late-mediaeval Westerosi folk ballads. I studied it at the conservatory.”

“It’s a damned bore,” Jaime said. “I prefer _The Dornishman’s Wife_.”

**

On Wednesday night, the music students returned.

Jaime asked them if they knew any cheerful, bawdy songs. “Free beer,” he said. “And if you can draw people in from off the street, a share in the tips.”

The violinist from the night previous, a bright-eyed youth named Tom Sevenstreams, looked doubtful. “Most people aren’t drawn in by folk music.”

“People are drawn in by excitement,” Jaime said. “By life and energy. I can command an entire room with nothing but a guitar. What can you do?”

The redheaded girl, Sansa, put up her hand. “I used to play jigs for my younger brothers and sisters,” she said. “It was wonderful breath-work.” When Jaime looked blank, she explained: “I’m a flautist.”

“Ah.” Jaime looked at the third member of the trio: a young, dark-haired boy who stammered whenever he opened his mouth. “And what do you do?”

“I’m a p-p-pianist,” he said, blushing slightly.

Jaime looked around the bar. There was a battered little upright piano in the corner, covered with dust. He lifted the cover and pressed down lightly on middle C, wincing at the discordant note it produced.

“What else can you do?” he asked.

“Pod here can sing,” Tom said, slinging an arm about the boy’s shoulders. “Once he gets drunk enough, he can sing like an angel.”

Sansa nodded in agreement.

Jaime poured young Pod a double-shot of whiskey.

By the end of the night, the makeshift band had drawn in at least ten people off the streets – though a slight flurry of snow and swirling winds might have had something to do with it – and had managed to draw scattered applause and a few ironic cheers.

“Don’t look so downhearted,” Jaime told them, dividing up the meagre tips. “Come back tomorrow night. Think of it as a learning experience. We all start out playing for drunks and losers.”

**

On Thursday night the makeshift band returned.

Jaime had called someone to tune the piano – had paid for it out of his own pocket, out of pity for the poor instrument – and had spent a few hours in the afternoon working on his elusive song.

This time, Tom, Sansa and Pod were more confident in themselves, testing their range and changing things up. They flushed with pleasure when the scattered crowd clapped for them, their eyes bright and excited.

“They’ve got the bug,” Sandor said. “But you’d know something about that, wouldn’t you, Lannister?”

“Snow,” Jaime said mildly. “I told you – my name’s Snow.”

Sandor only grunted. “I don’t know what your deal is with Tarth, and I don’t want to know. But if you hurt her, I’ll crush your fingers and make sure you can never play guitar again. Are we clear?”

Jaime fought the urge to clutch his fingers to his chest protectively.

“Crystal,” he said, smiling.

**

**#2 - E is for effort(less)**

**(Unfinished 5+1 Squire!Brienne fic for “The A-Z of a Young Knight’s Education” – eventually I decided on E for Epistolary)**

**

1.

The weight of leather and mail is heavy on her shoulders. They’ve been riding for long hours, the sun beating down on them; she’s overheated, soaked with sweat, and wants nothing more than to stop and rest.

Ser Jaime rides before her, tall and straight in the saddle, his cloak falling with effortless grace.

She makes no complaint.

**

2.

Ser Jaime circles her, lazy and prowling.

She feels graceless and lumbering in comparison, all brute force and ugly strength. When she attacks, he parries with ease and sends her flying off balance. “Watch your feet,” he drawls.

She recovers quickly, tries again and he slaps her lunge aside – “Don’t be predictable!” _–_ and deals her a painful blow on the ribs with the flat of his blade. Her breath whooshes out, and she gasps, but there’s no time to double over, because he comes at her, cat-quick –

Frantically she blocks him, straining against the force of it – gods, he’s so strong – and instinct takes over. She manages to hold her own for a few passes, but she’s so focused on him that she forgets her surroundings; her foot catches on a rock and she staggers off balance for a split second.

He kicks her hard in the chest and sends her crashing to the ground. She rolls, scrambling to get back to her feet, but his booted foot comes down on her wrist, not crushing but with definite warning force, and the edge of his blade comes to rest on the side of her throat.

She freezes. They’re using edged steel, and she can feel the razor-sharp chill of it against her beating pulse.

“I yield, ser,” she sighs, slumping back to the ground.

He lifts his blade from her throat and steps back, releasing her wrist.

“Get up,” he says. “And this time, mind your surroundings.”

Her ribs ache. Her muscles burn. Her hand is half-crushed and she’d fallen awkwardly on the stony ground. She’s tired and sore and she’ll never be good enough –

She forces herself back to her feet, stands up and faces him again.

**

3.

Ser Jaime teaches her the Dornish way of spear-fighting. It requires quick footwork and fluid grace, more so than her usual style –

“Faster,” he says, circling her with a thin ash spear. “Keep your balance.” Swift and darting, he tangles the haft of the spear between her crossed-over feet as she struggles with the footwork and sends her reeling off balance.

She crashes to the ground.

“Get up,” he says.

She gets up.

**

4.

The weight of leather and mail is heavy on her shoulders. Her hands are blistered and sore, her muscles burning from hacking at the straw dummy over and over. Her ribs are bruised where Ser Jaime had dealt her a particularly painful blow – _pay attention_ , he’d drawled, _and don’t grimace before you lunge_. Her legs and her back and even her fingers ache, but still she forces herself to rise.

When she had first asked Ser Goodwin to train her, he’d thought she would give up after a day or two, run back to her septa and her dresses and her sewing after she realized how rough and painful it would be.

Brienne had persevered, trying not to cry as he shouted at her and hit her with a wooden sword. When he knocked her in the dust and she scraped her palms bloody, she got back up again and picked up her sword. He knocked her down again and again, and she always got back up.

When she first came to King’s Landing and the other squires taunted and bullied her, she stood her ground. They could not knock her down physically, and so they turned to other modes of denigration – she did not react, refused to let them see that they had hurt her. And still she went back out into the yard and faced them, day after day.

Get up, she told herself. Stand up and fight. Don’t let them win.

It hurts. She gets up in the cold pre-dawn and heads down to the practice yard, grabs a heavy practice sword and starts her drills, all over again. Her shoulders ache. Her muscles burn. But when she hacks at the dummy with all her strength, she imagines the faces of her tormentors, and fresh energy races through her veins.

**

+1

Over long years, Jaime has learned the trick of standing before the throne for long hours on end, in full armour, back straight and white cloak falling just so.

The weight of full armour is heavy on his shoulders. The heat of the sun through the great stained glass windows is stifling in the middle of the day.

He makes no complaint.

**

**#3. Jaime Lannister, Renaissance man**

**[this was going to be a 5+1 fic, but I only came up with 3]**

**

1.

The twins were crying again. Brienne stirred, half-waking, her mind fogged with exhaustion, but Jaime tightened his arm around her waist and murmured _I’ll deal with it_ , and so Brienne closed her eyes and settled back into sleep. She was vaguely aware of Jaime’s absence, the bed colder and less comfortable without him, but she was so tired –

The next thing she knew, it was morning. Jaime was seated in a heavy wooden chair before the hearth, gently rocking the cradle with his booted foot. He held a lute across his lap and was tentatively picking out a melody with his left hand; he sang under his breath, and his voice was rich and smooth and remarkably true.

“You sing well,” she said, rising from the bed and crossing over to look down at their twins. They were sound asleep, twined about each other, dreaming their infant dreams. “And I didn’t know you could play the lute.”

He made a low, self-deprecating noise and lifted his right wrist. “Not so well as I used to.” She shot him a glance, and he grinned. “Princess Elia’s ladies used to play and sing for her,” he said. “Sometimes she would ask me.”

**

2.

Brienne’s father wished to host a great feast for the twins’ first nameday.

“We’ll hold it in the great hall,” Jaime said, “there should be space enough for all the guests. Put the musicians up in the Minstrel’s Gallery –”

[“Best to check ‘em for weapons first,” an anonymous wit muttered in the background, “and make sure they don’t play the _Rains of Castamere._ ”

He was hastily shushed.]

“– we can hold a masque, like the revels at Highgarden,” Jaime continued, deliberately oblivious. “We don’t have any rose gardens, of course, but the white marble will probably make a rather pretty effect if we can find enough stained glass lanterns.”

“I loved watching the dancers at the midnight masques,” Brienne sighed. “They were so graceful and elegant, and they all wore such wonderfully elaborate costumes.”

“Costumes.” Jaime nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, we’ll have to visit a tailor to have them made up – something in blue for you, and a gown that will sweep the floor when we dance –”

“Dance?” Brienne squeaked. “With you? But –”

“Of course.” Jaime looked puzzled – or pretended to. Sometimes it was hard to tell. “Were you planning on dancing with anyone else?”

“No. Oh – no. But –”

“Brienne.” Jaime smiled at her with bemused fondness. “Trust me. I may not have Renly’s flair, but I can dance just as well.” 

**

3.

“You have a mews,” Jaime said, his eyes alight with interest. “Do you have many birds?”

“A few,” Brienne said. “My mother brought them – and our falconer – from the Reach, when she married my father. But there’s not much scope for it on Tarth.” And then, “I thought Robert preferred hunting boar with spears.”

“He did,” Jaime agreed. “Falconry is a more social sport. More suited to fine ladies.”

“…Cersei liked it,” Brienne guessed. Cersei was – a delicate subject. But he had been tangled together with her nearly all his life; it was near impossible to avoid all mention of her. 

He made a low humming sound. “On fine days she used to ride out with her court, all in bright silks and velvets. The servants brought chilled wine and delicacies in wicker baskets, and we’d spread blankets on the grass and dine in the sun.”

And so the next fine day they took bread and cheese and a wineskin and went out hawking. They spread a blanket on the cliffs overlooking the clear sapphire waters and they dined in the sun.

**

**#4 - Here, at the end of all things**

**(Jaime/Cersei, written post-8x04 and pre-8x05, when I was still trying to make sense of Jaime’s characterisation – abandoned after 8x05)**

**

After the world has ended – here, at the end of all things, what do they have left but each other?

Jaime and Cersei (pregnant) flee King’s Landing. Her children are dead, the dragon queen is coming, and they can’t hope to hold – Cersei is bitter and angry and defiant, but Jaime drags her away – they flee westwards on the Goldroad to Casterly Rock.

Cersei is dressed in men’s clothes, her hair is short, she looks very much like Jaime but younger and fairer; he has crows’ feet at the corner of his eyes, lines of laughter and experience. Men look at him and find him more trustworthy; they watch her warily, mistrusting her smooth expressionless face. Her own battles were fought not with her body but with her mind and her will; her scars are all internal.

She is bitter and angry, raging at him and taunting him – that he couldn’t protect her, that his strength now is nothing more than a bluff – how can you protect me, you can’t even protect yourself. Kneeling before her, he only looks at her, tired and worn, a pale shadow of the fierce, golden lion of his youth – who else is there, Cersei? There’s no one else, only me. I’m here, aren’t I? I chose you over all else, even honour (even survival) –

Honour, she scoffs. What have you ever cared about honour?

Why didn’t you follow your big beast of a woman knight?

His eyes tighten, his mouth sets in a flat line and he looks away. There are some things he won’t discuss with her, and Brienne of Tarth is one of them.

As they travel west, they try to escape the packs of deserters and robbers on the road. Some of them wear Tyrell cloaks, some of them Lannister crimson – Cersei pulls her hood up, but sometimes they recognize Jaime – the Lannister men accord him a wary respect, they had all loved him for standing even as the dragon burned the battlefield to ash around him – they don’t blame him for running, for the world has ended and not even he could have held it together.

Here in the west, he is recognized and known – they remember what he once was. Cersei they had hated and feared and obeyed not out of love but fear – she keeps to the shadows and hates him for it.

They reach Casterly Rock – empty safety, but it’s all they have left.

It’s all he’s ever wanted, Jaime and Cersei and no one left in the world to stand against them; he’s always sworn he’d burn the world to ashes to have her.

Well, now he’s got his wish. And though the greater part of him knows that she’s a mad shadow of the fierce golden girl of her youth, she’s all he has left.

In the end, all they have is each other.

**

**#5 – Snippet featuring Young Jaime from “A War Worth Fighting”**

**[Written post season 8; this was going to be a crack fix-it fic]**

**

“Shall I get him back for you?” a voice asks.

Brienne flinches, pain slicing through her; it’s the same voice, the same ironic intonation –

But it’s not him.

Young Jaime stands in the shadow of the stables, holding out a thick fur cloak to her. She takes it with a mumbled word of thanks and swings it round her shoulders, huddling into it; what had she been thinking, running out into the cold and the snow in only a nightrobe?

“It shouldn’t be too difficult,” Young Jaime continues, his voice deliberately light. “He’s an old man with only one hand.”

When Tyrion Lannister said that his brother had been a golden lion once, he hadn’t been lying: at the age of 17, young ser Jaime Lannister is gloriously handsome – those golden _curls_ – with all the unthinking reckless self-assurance that comes of being one of the best swordsmen Brienne has ever seen.

It’s not ego; he really is _that_ good.

But he is still half a boy, and now that he’s had time to move on from the Mad King’s throne room, that tired lethargy has given way to careless kindness, a wicked tongue and a reckless sense of adventure. He’d gone roaming with the wildlings during the weeks following the battle; they’d ventured north to the Wall – _I want to piss off the edge of the world,_ he’d said, and Tyrion had laughed with delight. 

He’s always moving, always in action, and not given to self-reflection or humility of any sort; he’s impossibly young, and he makes Brienne feel ancient.

“Well?” Young Jaime asks.

Brienne gathers up the shreds of her courage. “Yes,” she says. “Yes – I want him back.”

**

“Where are you going?” a light, taunting voice asks. An all too familiar form emerges from the shadows, blocking Jaime’s way south.

Jaime winces. “You know where I’m going,” he says. “I’m going back.”

“Why?” His younger self, 17 years old and impossibly young, sits his horse with such careless, arrogant grace; if he hasn’t quite got the breadth and muscle Jaime had once had in his prime, he’s younger and quicker and he has both hands. “I thought you were happy up here, with your big woman.”

Such a simple, naïve question – how can he possibly explain his tangled reasons to this _boy?_

“I am,” Jaime says. “I was. Happier than I’ve ever – But it’s madness. A fool’s paradise. Cersei and I, we will never be free of each other. We came into the world together –”

“And we’ll leave it together,” Young Jaime finishes. “Yes. I know.” He says it so simply; he still believes it, in a way that Jaime no longer does. “But why don’t you seem so happy about it?”

Jaime can’t answer that.

“Let me go,” Young Jaime says. “You’re on the wrong side of forty and a cripple to boot. How long do you think you’ll last?”

Despite everything, Jaime finds himself stung. He nudges his horse, tries to brush past his younger self, but Young Jaime checks him. They stare at each other, eyes narrowed –

And then Young Jaime knocks him out.

He wakes the next morning in Brienne’s chamber at Winterfell, his younger self gone.

**

Young Jaime slips through the siege lines with ease. Though he doesn’t make it into the city before the gates of the Red Keep close, he remembers the secret tunnels from Aerys’ midnight gloating over his caches of wildfire.

He kills Euron Greyjoy with almost contemptuous ease.

He slips through the halls of the keep and comes upon the Cersei of this time, older, crueller and more bitter than the 17 year old girl-woman he remembers – still, she recognizes him and embraces him with a cry.

They flee into the tunnels. When they come to the blocked exits, he climbs up onto the mound of rubble and _digs_ his way out, and they escape the cave-in with only seconds to spare.

There’s a boat, waiting for them.

**

After long years of roaming and adventuring, he makes his way back to Tarth.

Lady Brienne and his older self welcome him with open arms.

**

**+1 – I can’t remember what I was thinking when I wrote this, but I think I can make something of it**

**

“I’ve always trusted your judgment, daughter,” her father says, grave and slightly amused. “No doubt you have excellent reasons for kidnapping and false imprisonment.”

“Father…” she says, trying to put the tangled mess of her motivations into words, but he only clasps her shoulder.

“Just remember, Brienne – even a one-handed, aging lion still has claws.”


	3. Devotion (canon AU; Jaime as the Warrior)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Give _me_ your devotion,” he whispered. “Your blood spent and your tears shed, your fear and your pain, your exultation and despair. Your sword will be wielded in my service, your victories won in my name.”
> 
> **
> 
> [Or; Brienne swears herself to the Warrior.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the sake of clarity: Jaime Lannister does not exist in this world.

When she was two and ten, after Ron Connington’s cruel rejection, Brienne lit a candle to the Warrior for the first time. 

As the flickering light illuminated the cool, shadowed sept, she felt the hair rise on the back of her neck. She heard distant whispers, a rush of air, and the echo of a light step. When she whirled around, she saw – 

“Who are you?” she whispered, her voice shaking. 

The man who stepped into the circle of candle-light was _beautiful_. He was clean-shaven, his hair a tumble of golden curls. 

“You know who I am,” he said. “You called me and I came.”

Her eyes darted to the carved statue of the Warrior, broad-shouldered and stern, with its bearded face and grave expression. It bore no resemblance to the man before her, whose eyes were cat-bright and gleaming. 

“But –” she swallowed. “But you’re – he’s –”

He knelt down before her, looked into her eyes. “I know _you,_ Brienne of Tarth,” he said. “I’ve watched over you from the moment you followed your brother into the practice yard and picked up a wooden sword. It was too heavy for you, but you forced yourself to lift it anyway.” 

“Galladon never laughed at me,” she said. “But my betrothed –” she blinked back tears. “He called me a sow in silk. Septa Roelle said –” 

“Take up the sword again,” the Warrior said. “If you cannot serve the Maiden or the Mother, serve me instead.” 

** 

When she was six and ten, after she took her sword to Ser Humphrey Wagstaffe and broke his collarbone and three ribs, she went to the sept and lit a candle before the Warrior. After a few moments she heard the familiar rush of air, and the echo of a light step, and she turned to see him once more – as golden and beautiful as ever. 

“There will be no more betrothals,” she said. “My father has washed his hands of me.”

He watched her with his cat-bright eyes. “Is that not what you desired?”

“Yes, but –” she swallowed. “I wish it could have been otherwise. Not – Not Wagstaffe. But I always hoped –” She sighed, her shoulders hunched. “All maids are beautiful in the songs.” 

He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, reached out and took one of her hands. He turned it palm up and trailed his fingers over her blisters and callouses. She shivered. 

“What is beauty?” he asked. “A perfectly balanced sword is beautiful, Lady Brienne. Your shoulders are broad, to carry the weight of your armour. Your legs are strong and muscular. These callouses,” he said, stroking her palm, “were earned in my service.” 

“My face –”

“Is a face. No more, and no less.” He released her hand, stroked his fingers over her cheek. “I see what lies within.” 

She swallowed. Her heart beat swiftly within her, her blood rushing in her veins. 

“Give _me_ your devotion,” he whispered. “Your blood spent and your tears shed, your fear and your pain, your exultation and despair. Your sword will be wielded in my service, your victories won in my name.”

He was so beautiful, and so tempting. She reached up and took his hand, drew it down from her face, stroked her own fingers over his palm – even his hands were beautiful, she thought. Strong and well-shaped, with wide palms. He had callouses of his own. 

It was that which decided her. 

“Yes,” she whispered, her mouth dry and her heart pounding like a drum. She swallowed thickly. “Yes,” she said again. 

He smiled at her. “I will give you a gift, Lady Brienne,” he said. “Use it well.” 

**

The next morning, she found a suit of blue armour and a Valyrian steel sword. 

** 

She went out into the world. 

She learned that life was nothing like the songs; that knights were selfish and petty and cruel, and handsome kings were not always perfect. She learned that dark shadows stalked the night, and that not even sacred tradition was proof against the greed and ambition of men. 

She learned fear and pain. She spilled blood and shed tears. She knew exultation and despair. She wielded her sword in _his_ name.

And when her quest for a long-lost girl turned to nightmare and she wandered lost in delirium, wracked with fever and haunted by ghosts, she called out to him, again and again – 

** 

He came to her on the Quiet Isle. 

She half-felt a presence, turned restlessly on her pallet, saw his golden beauty and cried out in hoarse relief. 

“You came,” she whispered. “I did not think –”

“Did you not call me?” he asked. He knelt down beside her, took her hand in his. It was stained with dirt and blood, her nails torn and her knuckles bruised. “You have wielded my gift well,” he said. 

“I failed.” Tears welled, seeping into the bandage covering the ghastly wound on her cheek. “Everyone I sought to protect has died.” 

He watched her with those cat-bright eyes. 

“I killed Lady Catelyn,” she cried, curling in on herself. “I swore to protect her –” 

“No,” he said. “That abomination was not Catelyn Stark.” 

His cool tone shocked her. She stared up at him, eyes wide, and clutched his hand. 

“This is not how your journey ends,” he said. “There are still more trials ahead.” 

Her mouth quivered. Her courage failed her. “I can’t,” she whispered, “I – I’m so tired, and it hurts –”

He gathered her into his arms and she wept bitterly into his shoulder. When her tears were spent, she pulled away and looked up. 

“When you are healed,” he said, “take up your sword, and keep going.” He pressed the hilt of her sword into her hand. “The night may be dark and full of terror, but I will always be with you.”

** 

When night fell and the sun did not rise, when the darkness rolled over Winterfell and the last of the fires winked out, one by one, Brienne clutched her sword close and called out for him. 

With a rush of air and a low hum of whispers, he came. 

Side by side, they stood against the vast army of the dead.


	4. Possession (canon AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which young Brienne is possessed by Jaime's ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is essentially 2700 rambling words of Jaime teaching young Brienne to stand up for herself and fight, which is one of my absolute favourite themes.
> 
> I'm not ruling out more in this particular AU. I still have a few ideas. 
> 
> Please enjoy?!

Her betrothed rejects her in the cruellest possible way and throws a red rose at her feet. Numb, Brienne stares at the red-headed young knight and his laughing companions, at the expressions on the onlookers’ faces – at her father, his face grim and his eyes outraged.

Her cheeks burn, and she fights the urge to curl in on herself; tears prickle behind her eyes.

 _Don’t you dare weep,_ Jaime snarls. _Don’t give that ginger cunt the satisfaction._

 _Everyone is staring at me_ , Brienne cries. _They all saw –_

_They saw a loud-mouthed boor insult a highborn lady in her own hall. Stand up straight, and stare him down – he’s beneath your contempt. Who the fuck does he think he is? The lion does not care –_

_I’m not a lion!_

_Well, I am. And as long as I’m forced to share this body with you, we will not be ridiculed by a landless cunt from a third-rate house. I am a Lannister of Casterly Rock –_

She tunes out his snarling hauteur and concentrates on standing tall and staring Ronnet Connington down. She is a highborn lady in her own hall, and a loud-mouthed boor had insulted her; she draws on Jaime’s memories of his proud sister and tries to match that withering contempt. 

Connington’s smug smile fades. The tittering from the crowd gives way to uneasy silence.

“Pick up your rose and go, ser,” she says coldly. “And be thankful I don’t make you swallow it along with your words.”

**

Brienne can’t remember a time before Jaime.

She knows that she was not always like – _this_.

She doesn’t know why, or what it means; she knows only that one day, when she was very young, Jaime had been put to death in King’s Landing – and Brienne and her father had been caught up in the crowd. Her father had tried to shield her; all Brienne remembers is the blue sky above and the shining arc of a blade, and then the shocking wet warmth of blood, spattered across her face –

And then Jaime had awakened within her.

He’d tried to overpower her, at first. Raging and bitter and defiant, unable to accept his end, he’d sought to steal her body for his own. She’d fought back, clinging stubbornly to life, seeking to cast him out into the void where he belonged.

Her father told her she’d gone into a strange and deathly sleep after witnessing the execution; the maesters could not explain it, could only say that she was in shock and that her mind had shut down.

Brienne had fought against the intruder for almost a week; in the end, they’d come to an agreement: the stranger in her mind would remain a passenger only, and Brienne would not cast him out.

She’s not at all sure that she could.

**

Jaime is proud and haughty and insolent, all snarling defiance at the world and the limitations of his – and Brienne’s – existence. He’d hated Septa Roelle from the beginning, calling her a _shrivelled up cunt_ – a phrase that had earned Brienne a thrashing when she’d innocently repeated it – and hatching murderous plots for revenge after all her punishments.

 _Don’t listen to her,_ he tells Brienne again and again. _That hag has no idea of what befits a great lady._

Jaime’s idea of what befits a great lady is based on his sister, Cersei, and his mother Joanna. Great ladies – Lannister ladies – are proud, and fierce, and ambitious. They wield power and authority in their own right.

They stand straight, and don’t hunch in on themselves – they don’t apologise for their very existence. Great ladies are _lions_.

 _I’m not a Lannister_ , Brienne tells him, again and again.

And always, he comes back with: _I am._

**

The night after Connington’s departure, Brienne weeps.

Jaime is disgusted, but Brienne is twelve years old and humiliated. No man will ever love her: she’s too tall; too ugly; and the news of this day’s happenings will spread far and wide.

 _I will never be a wife,_ she sobs, looking at herself in the mirror. She compares herself to Jaime’s memory of Cersei at the same age: spun golden curls, emerald green eyes, red lips and perfect white teeth. _Septa Roelle was right. I'm a freak._

Jaime snarls angrily. _You are *not*._ Impelled by his fury, she paces around her bedchamber, her fists clenched and her heart racing. There is no ladylike outlet for her rage; her hands – _Jaime’s_ hands – ache for the weight of a sword, and her body – _Jaime’s_ body – longs for violence.

 _Let’s go hit something,_ Jaime says. _We’ll both feel better for it._

She sneaks down into the practice yard, still in her skirts, and slips into the armoury. She runs her hand over the racks of lead-weighted wooden practice swords, picking them up at random – startled by the weight, at first – and adjusts her grip, guided by Jaime’s instincts. She lets Jaime weigh the balance: _no_ , he says, and _no, not that one_ , until she finally draws one that feels perfectly natural in her hand.

 _Yes,_ he sighs. _Do you feel it? The perfect balance._

 _It’s heavy_ , she says.

_Of course it is. A real blade is even heavier. They’re not toys, you know._

She takes her practice sword and walks out into the yard. The moon is bright above, the stars glittering against the black sky; she can see the practice dummy perfectly clearly.

 _Before we do anything,_ Jaime says – _the fundamentals._

He teaches her how to stand. He teaches her how to hold the sword.

He teaches her how to block and parry and lunge.

He teaches her how to use her feet.

The weight of the wooden blade is both new and utterly familiar; she feels as though she could dance with it, and as though she might fall over her tangled feet at any time.

 _When do I get to hit something?_ she asks.

 _Now,_ he says. _Strike the dummy – and remember to move your feet._

She marches over to the dummy. Draws in her breath. Swings her wooden blade – and cries out, startled, as the shock of impact stings her palms and reverberates up her wrists and into her shoulders.

She drops the sword in the dust.

 _Never let go of your sword!_ Jaime snaps. _If you do that in battle, you’re a dead man._

Trembling, Brienne picks the wooden blade up, adjusts her grip, and carefully assumes the correct stance.

 _Good,_ Jaime says. _Your feet further apart, your hands a bit higher on the hilt – yes. Now – again._

She strikes the dummy again. This time, she’s prepared for the impact; she rolls her shoulders and absorbs the shock of it.

 _Like that?_ she asks Jaime.

Jaime laughs. She can feel his reckless joy uncurling, his enjoyment in the physical activity singing through her blood. _Just like that_. _Again._

She strikes the dummy again, and again, and again.

**

In the morning, her hands are blistered and her shoulders are aching. Her wrists are sore, and her muscles are burning from lifting the unaccustomed weight.

But she feels more at ease than she ever has before.

**

Night after night, Brienne dons Galladon’s old clothes and sneaks out into the practice yard, and Jaime teaches her how to fight. He guides her through the basic forms, drilling her mercilessly – _move your feet!_ he says, again and again – and she can feel the thrill he takes in it, finally free of the constraints of skirts and sewing and ladylike expectations.

 _Even without me, you’ve got skill_ , he says admiringly. _With me, we’ll be unbeatable._

And then one night, Septa Roelle catches her out and sets up a great screeching outcry that wakes the entire castle. She grasps Brienne’s arm in a cruel, bruising grip and drags her before her father, shaking her and accusing her of unnatural, unladylike behaviour.

Her father looks tired and worn. “Daughter, what were you doing?”

Brienne lifts her chin. _Lions_ , she thinks, and feels Jaime’s encouragement. “I was practicing with my sword,” she says stubbornly.

“And how did you learn?” her father asks.

Brienne looks away. Shifts her feet. “I watched the knights in the squires in the yard. I tried to copy what I saw.”

 _Gods above, you’re a poor liar,_ Jaime mutters.

“My lord, you must put an end to such wicked behaviour,” Septa Roelle says, shaking her. “Or else she will never be a lady, and never make a suitable wife.”

“I don’t want to be a lady!” Brienne cries out, trying to twist away from her grip. “I don’t want to be a suitable wife.”

“Well, what _do_ you want, Brienne?” her father asks.

“I want to be a knight,” she cries – and feels the strange echo of Jaime’s own defiance, long years ago.

**

Septa Roelle thrashes her. Brienne grits her teeth and glowers defiantly, Jaime swearing fierce vengeance – _Lannisters pay our debts, and one day we’ll make that old bitch pay ten-fold –_ and for the next two weeks, she’s forced to stay inside and attend to her lessons.

Sewing lessons. Dancing lessons. Deportment and courtesy. The lute and the high harp. Lessons in household management and the history, geography and great houses of the Seven Kingdoms. 

It had been tedious before, when she had not known the thrill of a sword in her hand; now it’s excruciating. She spends most of her time staring out of the window, longing for freedom.

But she can’t escape Septa Roelle’s beady eye and her thin cane, and so she endures. Jaime helps, a little; he knows little and cares less about household management, but he knows his history, geography and all the great houses.

 _My maester also had a beady eye and a thin cane,_ he says dryly. _My father made sure he beat the knowledge into my head_.

Deportment and courtesy he knows as well, though his ideas of appropriate courtesy and behaviour are more suited to the heir to Casterly Rock than to the daughter of a minor Stormlands house.

But it’s the sewing lessons in which Brienne comes to rely on Jaime’s skill. After Septa Roelle smacks her fingers for the fourth time for her clumsy stitching, Jaime says _oh very well, let me do it –_ and proceeds to set a fine, pretty row of stitches, as neat as Septa Roelle could wish.

 _How could you possibly–?_ Brienne asks.

Jaime only laughs, and shares his memory of his younger self and his twin, swapping clothes and playing pretend.

**

After two weeks, she can’t take it any more and sneaks out in the middle of the night. She’s thwacking away at the practice dummy, she and Jaime relishing the burn of her muscles after being forced for so long to sit still, when she hears a man clearing his throat.

Jaime’s instincts have her flying around, her wooden practice blade raised defensively. Her heart is pounding, adrenaline flooding through her.

Her lips draw back in Jaime’s fierce grin.

A torch flares. By its sudden light, she can see Ser Goodwin, leaning against the armoury wall with his arms crossed, watching her.

She breathes a sigh of relief, lowers her wooden blade and stands tall.

“Lady Brienne,” he says, uncrossing his arms and strolling towards her. “Your father told me to keep an eye out for you sneaking into the practice yard again.”

“I’m not sorry,” Brienne says fiercely. “I’m not going to give it up.”

“Your father anticipated that, too. He told me to make sure that you learned properly, rather than by watching the knights and squires.”

“Truly?” she cries, her heart lifting – though she can feel Jaime’s half-heard grumbling about third-rate masters of arms of minor houses. She ignores him.

“Report to the practice yard at dawn tomorrow,” Ser Goodwin orders her. “Be prepared to train hard.”

“I will be there!” she says, her eyes shining with eagerness. “I’ll work twice as hard as anyone else.”

“I know you will,” Ser Goodwin says, smiling.

**

And so Brienne begins her formal instruction in sword and shield and buckler, lance and spear and morningstar. It’s hard, painful, wearying work, but Brienne loves it. Brienne is tall, and strong, and powerful, and Ser Goodwin teaches her in a way that, she slowly comes to realise, is more fitted to her physical stature than Jaime’s own lessons.

Jaime had been quicker than her, she realises. Quicker and more agile – he was always telling her to move faster, to mind her footwork, and thought of swordplay as a dance.

Ser Goodwin tells her to stand her ground, to let her opponents wear themselves down against her defence – it’s an endurance game, he says. Don’t try to be fancy. Be solid, and strong, and immovable.

It’s a curious revelation, that she is different to Jaime, and he to her.

**

 _Of course I had a life before you_ , Jaime says. _I had a twin sister, and a younger brother. I was knighted by the Sword of the Morning on the field of battle. I was the youngest knight ever to be appointed to the Kingsguard._

She’s known _Jaime_ all her life. It’s from her father’s household knights that she learns of the Kingslayer.

 _You’re an oathbreaker_ , she accuses him. _You killed the king you were sworn to protect._

Sometimes, she catches glimpses of things Jaime does not want her to see. Some dark, secret thing he shared with his sister, that makes something curl deep within Brienne’s belly. Violence or horror that he deems her too young to witness. 

For a moment after her accusation, Jaime’s rage flares white-hot. His control slips, and she sees a tumbling cascade of his memories: an old man on a monstrous chair; the bright green of wildfire; the smell of roasting meat and the inhuman screams of men burned alive; bells tolling, and a city screaming, and a madman shouting _burn them all!_

She feels her mouth stretch into a grin as she hunts down the fleeing pyromancer and cuts his begging pleas short. She feels the thrill of the old man’s dawning fear as she says – _Rossart’s –_ and watches the horrified realisation as he turns to run. She grasps the old man by his ermine robes and plunges her sword into his back, feels the hot spill of his blood on her hands, his choking gasps and cries as she slits his throat and watches the light fade from his mad eyes.

She comes back to herself on her knees, sobbing and retching, shocked by the power of Jaime’s fear and hatred and the visceral feel of blood coating her hands. Weeping, she scrubs at her hands, trying to wash away the warm wetness of it, coating her –

 _Stop_ , Jaime says, slamming the door on his memories. _My apologies. I did not mean you to see that._

 _You enjoyed it,_ she whispers. _You broke your oath, and you enjoyed it._

 _He was a monster,_ Jaime says. _He deserved everything he got, and more._

**

Long days and months and even years pass.

Brienne grows man-tall and strong, her shoulders broad and her body thick and muscular. She learns from Ser Goodwin to carry the weight of chainmail and plate, to fight on foot or on horseback with a heavy steel sword and an oaken shield, and to batter her opponents into submission.

Ser Goodwin freely admits he is better at fighting on foot; it’s Jaime who teaches her the subtle skill of controlling a warhorse with her voice and her knees, and Jaime who teaches her the refinements of the joust and the tilt – because when he was alive, he had loved the thrill and excitement of tourneys above all else.

Ser Goodwin and Jaime both teach her how to use her fists and her feet, her knees and her teeth, if need be; Jaime’s memories flickering to women he had seen with bruised skin and haunted eyes.

By the time she’s sixteen years old and Ser Humphrey Wagstaffe tells her to put down her weapons and take up a woman’s proper duties, Brienne has no patience for him, and no compunction about beating him into the ground.

 _No more betrothals,_ Brienne says.

And Jaime says, his voice dark and satisfied – _Good. Now we can go out into the world._

**


	5. 5 times Brienne knocked on the door of Casterly Rock (& 1 time Jaime came to Evenfall Hall) (modern AU; time-travel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Far, far above Lannisport, at the end of a long and torturous mountain road, the cavernous entrance to Casterly Rock was called the Lion’s Mouth. In the long-ago days of dragons, iron-fisted knights and warring kingdoms, it had been guarded by a great portcullis; now there was only a huge pair of time-blackened, iron-banded oak doors, carved all over with lions. 
> 
> CCTV cameras, their lights blinking red, watched her from above. 
> 
> Squaring her shoulders, she took a deep breath and grasped the heavy knocker. Once, twice, thrice, she brought it down on the ancient wood, hearing the impact echo in the far distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of an experimental fic. Hopefully you enjoy the structure? 
> 
> Parts 4 and 5 veered off down a strange time-travelling path of their own. Just a warning for part 4 - non-graphic hinting at the Valonquar prophecy. 
> 
> Many thanks to all who have encouraged and enabled this fic. You know who you are :-)

**1\. Following her GPS**

“In 500 metres, turn right,” the GPS in her hire-car said with maddening calm.

“Are you – you’re not serious!” Brienne snapped. “There’s nothing to the right but thin air.”

She was not quite sure how she had got on to this winding, torturous mountain road – Lannisport was an absolute bloody maze, and somehow she’d gotten completely lost in the tangle of streets – but she was very sure that the road was too narrow to turn around; there was no way out but forward. Or in this case, up, and up, and up, to the huge castle she could see looming high above.

“Turn right,” the GPS said. And then, “Recalculating.”

Twenty minutes later, Brienne came to the end of the road. There was nowhere else to go; she pulled her car into the shadow of a great cavern, climbed out to stretch her legs and look about her.

It looked like an ancient fortress. In the long-ago days of dragons, iron-fisted knights and warring kingdoms, any entrance to the place had probably been guarded by a great portcullis; now there was only a huge pair of time-blackened, iron-banded oak doors, carved all over with lions.

CCTV cameras, their lights blinking red, watched her from above. She gave them a little wave.

Squaring her shoulders, she took a deep breath and grasped the heavy knocker. Once, twice, thrice, she brought it down on the ancient wood, hearing the impact echo in the far distance.

After a few moments, the door opened to reveal a golden god wearing jeans and a faded band t-shirt.

He looked her up and down. “Hel- _lo_ ,” he said, smiling. “What can I do for you?”

**

**2\. A date**

Far, far above Lannisport, at the end of a long and torturous mountain road, the cavernous entrance to Casterly Rock was called the Lion’s Mouth. In the long-ago days of dragons, iron-fisted knights and warring kingdoms, it had been guarded by a great portcullis; now there was only a huge pair of time-blackened, iron-banded oak doors, carved all over with lions.

CCTV cameras, their lights blinking red, watched her from above. _Typical,_ Brienne thought with a smile.

Squaring her shoulders, took a deep breath, and grasped the heavy knocker. Once, twice, thrice, she brought it down on the ancient wood, hearing the impact echo in the far distance.

After a few moments, the door opened to reveal a golden god wearing jeans and a faded band t-shirt.

He looked her up and down. “Hel- _lo_ ,” he said, smiling. “What can I do for you?”

 _Jaime_ , she realised. Exactly as she’d always imagined.

“I’m here for Cersei,” she said. “We’re going dancing.”

**

**3\. Jeyne Austen has a lot to answer for***

Far, far above Lannisport, at the end of a long and torturous mountain road, the cavernous entrance to Casterly Rock was called the Lion’s Mouth. In the long-ago days of dragons, iron-fisted knights and warring kingdoms, it had been guarded by a great portcullis; now there was only a huge pair of time-blackened, iron-banded oak doors, carved all over with lions.

At the backpacker’s hotel in Lannisport, she’d asked if Casterly Rock was open to the public, and Ron Connington had laughed and said yes, of course, they’re very welcoming up there –

CCTV cameras, their lights blinking red, watched her from above. It did not look very welcoming at all.

Squaring her shoulders, she took a deep breath and grasped the heavy knocker. Once, twice, thrice, she brought it down on the ancient wood, hearing the impact echo in the far distance.

After a few moments, the door opened to reveal a golden god wearing jeans and a faded band t-shirt.

He looked her up and down. “Hel- _lo_ ,” he said, smiling. “What can I do for you?”

She blinked, struck dumb by his outrageous good looks. “Um. I was wondering if you’re open to members of the public? For tours?”

He raised his brows. “Public tours? Of Casterly Rock?” For some reason, he seemed to find this very amusing. “Of course,” he said. “Come in.”

His name, he said, was Jaime.

“Are you the butler?” she asked. “You don’t look like a butler.”

His mouth twitched. “We’re very casual here at the Rock.”

She had no reason not to believe him. But as he took her on an informal tour – _I’m not the normal tour guide, you know, so you’ll have to make do with me_ – she began to suspect that he was taking the piss.

He started by recounting the old tale of the founding of the Rock, of how Lann the Clever had winkled it out from beneath the last Casterly’s feet. He told her a number of hair-raising stories of spine-tingling treachery, of wars and conquests and invasions. But when they reached the portrait gallery, hung with portraits of golden-haired and green-eyed Lannisters going back hundreds of years, his stories took a turn for the scandalous.

“Look up there,” he said, indicating a portrait of a lush, golden-haired woman with an avaricious gleam in her bright green eyes. “Messalina Lannister. She had six husbands, each one wealthier and more powerful than the last, and any number of lovers, both male and female.”

Brienne stared up at Messalina’s tumbling golden curls, at her heaving bosom barely contained by her gauzy white robe, and could well believe it.

“And here,” Jaime said, “is Gerold Lannister. He was a bit of a wild rake, by all accounts.” Gerold Lannister was tall, handsome as all the Lannisters in the portraits were, with hard green eyes and a cruel sneering smile. “They say he killed a man in a duel, ran off with his widow, and became a notorious pirate captain.”

“You sound like you admire him,” Brienne said.

Jaime grinned. “I always wanted to be a pirate.”

They strolled along, Jaime’s stories becoming more and more outrageous. Brienne looked at his bright eyes and laughing smile and knew that he was not mocking her, but was inviting her to laugh with him –

“Are any of these stories true?” she demanded, her mouth twitching.

“Of course!” he put his hand on his heart. “I would never lie about my esteemed – ” he cut himself off.

“Aha!” she said. “I knew it!” She pointed her finger at him. “Your ancestors! I knew you weren’t the butler.”

He tried and failed to look offended.

“Here,” Brienne said, pointing to something that had caught her eye on the wall. “Look. What’s this?” It was a framed photograph of a teenage boy, bright-eyed and flushed with triumph, holding up a trophy. “Westerosi under-18 fencing champion,” she read, her mouth curling in a smile. “Jaime _Lannister_.”

“Ah well. You’ve caught me out.” He sighed. “I’m not the butler. And Casterly Rock is not, and never has been, open to the public – still.” He took a step closer to her, tugged at her hand and entwined their fingers. “There is one last thing I can show you.” His eyes danced. “If we go through this corridor and up a flight of stairs, we’ll come to my rooms. Do you want to see my sword?”

She drew herself up to her full height and glowered down at him. But she did not pull her hand away. “Is that a line?”

“Absolutely,” he said. 

**

He really did have a Valyrian steel sword. He showed her, afterwards.

**

**4\. An arrest**

Far, far above Lannisport, at the end of a long and torturous mountain road, the cavernous entrance to Casterly Rock was called the Lion’s Mouth. In the long-ago days of dragons, iron-fisted knights and warring kingdoms, it had been guarded by a great portcullis; now there was only a huge pair of time-blackened, iron-banded oak doors, carved all over with lions.

CCTV cameras, their lights blinking red, watched her from above; there was no one around, no sound of life save for the wind. A cloud passed over the summer sun, and the sky grew dull and leaden, tiny flakes of snow swirling in the wind.

Squaring her shoulders, she took a deep breath and grasped the heavy knocker. Once, twice, thrice, she brought it down on the ancient wood, hearing the impact echo in the far distance.

“Westerosi Bureau of Investigation!” she called, her voice echoing dully. “Open in the name of the law!”

There was no answer.

Again, she knocked, hammering her fist on the door – she stepped back, startled, as the door slowly drifted open.

She stepped through, drawing her gun, the hair prickling on the back of her neck. It was cold, suddenly, so cold, and her surroundings seemed to flicker strangely; one moment she saw electric lights, smoke detectors and CCTV cameras, and the next stone walls and iron cressets holding wooden torches.

In the distance, she heard shouting and the clash of – _steel?_ Ignoring the strangeness, and the way the walls flickered from stone to plaster and back again, the way the lighting dimmed and flickered and brightened, and the persistent icy chill coursing down her spine, she ran towards the shouting and screaming.

She stumbled over the first body with a gasp. It was a man wearing a strange sort of historical costume, leather armour and mail and a red coat emblazoned with a gold lion. His throat had been slashed open with some kind of blade, and blood had spread everywhere over the plush red strips of carpet – no, the stone floor.

Further on, more men were lying dead. The clash of steel and the shouting had almost died down, now, and she feared that she was too late. She ran on, and on, until she came to the entrance of what looked like a great hall, and there she saw –

A great dais, and an empty gold-encrusted throne flanked by huge red and gold banners. At the foot of the throne stood a man in dull black armour, head bowed, a blood-streaked _sword_ in his left hand –

“Freeze!” she called, raising her gun and keeping it trained steadily on him. Her heart was pounding with anticipation; she had been looking into the murder of Aerys Targaryen for long weeks. Evidence had been destroyed and his fellow Kingsguard had lied for him, but Brienne had persevered, she had pored over every detail of his life, and now here she was –

“Jaime Lannister! You’re under arrest.”

He turned. It _was_ Jaime Lannister. She had lived with his picture for months, had memorised every curve of his too-handsome face, and she knew him immediately. But he was older, much older, and he had a _beard_ streaked with grey, and he was missing his right hand –

His eyes were the same, though. Shocked. Haunted. Exhausted. That same thousand-yard stare that had greeted Brienne when she first saw him, in the throne-room of the Red Keep.

“Brienne,” he said hoarsely. “Have you come to bring me to justice?”

**

**5\. To Get Jaime Back**

Far, far above Lannisport, at the end of a long and torturous mountain road, the cavernous entrance to Casterly Rock was called the Lion’s Mouth. The iron portcullis was lifted, leaving only a huge pair of time-blackened, iron-banded oak doors carved all over with lions to guard the great fortress.

There was no one around, no sound of life save for the wind. A cloud passed over the faded wintry sun, and suddenly it was much warmer, the air smelling of summer.

Squaring her shoulders, she took a deep breath and grasped the heavy knocker. Once, twice, thrice, she brought it down on the ancient wood, hearing the impact echo in the far distance.

“Cersei Lannister!” she called, her voice echoing dully. “Open in the name of the Queen!”

There was no answer.

Again, she knocked, hammering her fist on the door – she stepped back, startled, as the door slowly drifted open.

She drew Oathkeeper and stepped through, the hair prickling on the back of her neck. It was cold, suddenly, so cold, and her surroundings seemed to flicker strangely; one moment she saw stone walls and iron cressets holding torches, and then the next the walls were strangely smooth and the lighting like nothing she had seen before.

In the distance, she heard – nothing. No shouting, no clash of steel on steel, not even any heavy armoured footsteps on the stone floor, except her own. If she had not already known that Cersei Lannister and her court had fled to Casterly Rock, she might have thought it deserted.

With the persistent icy chill coursing down her spine, she came to the entrance to a great hall – the Hall of Heroes, it must be – and there she saw –

A great dais, and an empty gold-encrusted throne flanked by huge red and gold banners. At the foot of the throne sat –

“Jaime,” she breathed.

He lifted his head. It _was_ him. It seemed so long ago that she had seen him last, in the courtyard at Winterfell; she had forgotten the shocking impact of his too-handsome face.

But he was younger, much younger, and clean-shaven, and he had _both_ hands –

“Agent Tarth,” he said, his lips curling in a smile. “Have you come to arrest me?”

But his eyes were haunted and exhausted, that same remote stare that she had first seen in the baths at Harrenhal, when he spoke of the Mad King.

**

**+1 – And one time Jaime came to Evenfall Hall**

Not so far above the harbour, on a lush green swell of hill, the white-marble fortress of Evenfall Hall overlooked the isle of Tarth like a benevolent guardian. In the magnificent sunset light, the marble walls were painted in a wash of rich colour; with the blue sea and the green earth, it was the richest and most vibrant display he had seen in a long, long time – since the first snows had fallen over King’s Landing, so many months ago.

He rode up the mountain road to the heavy portcullis, and when the guards challenged him he squared his shoulders, put back his hood and announced himself.

With ponderous, creaking slowness, the portcullis rose – and he rode into the courtyard.

Brienne was there to welcome him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This refers to the original plot bunny that started it all: essentially, Brienne loves that part in the book where Lizzie Bennet and her aunt and uncle just turn up at Pemberley and ask for a tour. Casterly Rock is definitely not open to the public, but Jaime is happy to play along.


	6. 5 times Brienne kidnapped Jaime (and one time he returned the favour) (Modern AU; 1 canon shot)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ah, I perceive the truth!” said Leonie. “It is Miss Mary Challoner who has abducted my son. I make her my compliments.”
> 
>  _Devil’s Cub,_ by Georgette Heyer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the author writes ridiculous fluff as a coping mechanism. (Well, mostly fluff. And #3 is taken almost verbatim from ADWD.)

1.

He woke with an aching head and a queasy stomach. Groaning, he rolled over, reaching for a pillow to pull over his head – _what_ had he done last night? Tyrion had dragged him to a club, and there’d been a tall, powerful woman watching him, her eyes bluer than the Maiden’s.

He’d gone over to her, drawn like a moth to a flame.

She’d bought him a drink. He’d ignored his bodyguard’s disapproval and tossed it down, his eyes fixed on hers. The drink had _not_ been spiked; they’d gone back to hers, and it had been – a revelation –

Had he felt a tiny pinprick, just before he drifted off to sleep?

“Wake up, Kingslayer,” a low, very familiar voice said.

“I told you, sweetling, my name is –”

Her hand, big and strong, grasped his shoulder and hauled him upright. Blinking, he stared up at her – the stunning, confident, sexy woman of last night –

But now she was dressed in black combat gear and heavy boots, a no-nonsense rifle cradled expertly in her arms. Her blue, blue eyes were hidden by mirrored aviator sunglasses, and she wore the direwolf sigil.

CPT. B. TARTH, read her name patch.

His eyes travelled from her to her companion: a tall, red-headed woman with cold blue eyes.

“Welcome,” Catelyn Stark said.

**

2.

Brienne woke with a feeling of slow, lazy contentment, stretching out beneath the sheets, feeling the soft rocking of the sea beneath her. She was on her yacht, then; she had sailed it from Tarth to King’s Landing, and there she had met –

She sat bolt upright, clutching the sheets to her chest. She had met _Jaime_.

His low voice sounded from the galley. She got up, pulling the sheet about her, and padded to the doorway to look at him: he was unshaven, wearing black trousers and an unbuttoned white dress shirt, and speaking urgently into her satellite phone.

“Tyrion, it’s me. Yes, I know the reception is awful, I’m calling on a satellite phone. No, never mind what I’m – look, I’m on a yacht in the middle of the Narrow Sea, okay – yes, I know I ran out on Aunt Genna’s birthday, tell her I’m sorry and buy her a huge bunch of flowers. And for the gods’ sake, don’t tell Father, you know what he’s like –”

He saw Brienne and gave her a bright, wicked smile.

“What? No! No, I haven’t been kidnapped – look, we’ll be in Pentos in a couple of hours. Can you get someone from the local office to meet me with my passport, a phone, and a credit card? Oh, and get them to book the penthouse suite at the most exclusive hotel in the city –”

Brienne smiled, feeling a rush of utterly bemused fondness for him. He was so beautiful, and so unlike anyone she’d ever met before; unlike the gruff, practical islanders of Tarth he was reckless and impractical and he thought nothing of following Brienne onto her yacht, heedless of the consequences.

“Yes, _we_. Never mind her name, brother. Yes, she’s absolutely worth braving Father – no, you can’t speak to her, Tyrion, oh dear the signal’s breaking up krrrrwhsshtttbzzz –”

He hung up, replaced the satellite phone in its cradle and pushed away from the bench, wrapping his arms around her and drawing her in for a kiss.

“Good morning,” he said, rubbing his stubbled cheek against hers.

She laughed, and put her hand on his bare chest when he tried to draw her even closer. “Does your brother think I’ve carried you off?”

“My brother,” Jaime smiled, “says that I’m to enjoy every minute of it.” 

And so they did.

**

3.

“My lady,” Jaime said, scrambling to his feet. “I had not thought to see you again so soon. That bandage…you’ve been wounded.”

“A bite.” She touched the hilt of her sword, the sword that he had given her. _Oathkeeper._ “My lord, you gave me a quest.”

“The girl. Have you found her?”

“I have,” said Brienne, Maid of Tarth.

“Where is she?”

“A day’s ride. I can take you to her, ser…but you will need to come alone. Elsewise, the Hound will kill her.”

**

4.

“Lady Brienne,” her father’s steward bowed. “I have housed Ser Jaime in the tower room.” He coughed, and handed her a heavy iron key. “There is only one door, and the windows are barred.”

Her face flamed. 

When the man was gone, her father stirred. “I’ve always trusted your judgment, daughter,” he said gravely. “No doubt you have excellent reasons for kidnapping and false imprisonment.”

Brienne winced. “Father –”

“And while I would not have advocated this course while Lord Tywin was alive, there’s no denying that a good deal of their threat died with him.”

She sighed, and sank down into a chair.

“Ser Jaime is not –”

“He’s not the Queen’s lover, the leader of her armies? He’s not the man who threatened to send Edmure Tully’s son to him in a trebuchet?”

Jaime _was_ all of those things. But he was also more.

“He’s not what he once was,” she said. “And I can’t let him – I can’t let him go back.”

“Brienne.” Her father put his hand on her shoulder. “You can’t stop him.”

“I will.” She scowled mutinously. “I have. I’ll keep him safe on Tarth – in chains if I have to.”

**

5\. 

“I’m not a siren,” Brienne scowled. “I didn’t _lure_ you away. I didn’t make you say the words.”

“Lannisters do not get married in Sunspear,” Jaime intoned, his eyes dancing. “Especially not to women they have known for less than a day.” He looked over at her, and his smile softened. “I told him I knew, from the moment I met you.”

“And what did he say to that?”

“He couldn’t say anything,” Jaime replied. “That’s how he always explained it, when he spoke about marrying my mother.”

**

+1

“A picnic,” Brienne echoed faintly. “You dragged me out of bed before dawn on a Saturday morning, you bundled me into your car before I could even force my eyes open, and now you tell me we’re going on a picnic. In Highgarden.”

“Exactly,” Jaime said, nodding. The sun was barely above the horizon and they were already out of King’s Landing and speeding along the highway. 

“Jaime,” she said, in a low, ominous voice. “Are you going to tell me why?”

He only grinned; a laughing, sharp, careless flash of charisma. So many times, that had been Jaime’s only answer to Brienne’s demands for reason and logic; _why_ , she would ask, and he would only laugh and say _Why not?_

He’d _always_ been like that, from the first time they met at university. Whenever he smiled at her, her wits scattered like chaff in the wind.

He’d smiled at her every time he lured her away from her studies. He’d smiled at her the first time they went on a picnic, high up on the cliffs of Tarth, and he’d pressed her down to the blanket and kissed her as the sun sank into the sea –

“Trust me,” he said.

**

The drive from King’s Landing to Highgarden took four hours. They checked into an expensive hotel – only the best for Lannisters – and Jaime coaxed her into touring the castle town with its winding streets and boutique shops, window-shopping and holding hands. 

Afterwards they strolled along the river, watching the pleasure boats.

“You’re not thinking of hiring one, are you? Because I am not fooling around in one of them –”

He looked shocked. “I would never dream of it.” He laid his hand on his heart, his eyes dancing. 

He drew her arm through his and led her up to the famed rose gardens, to a marble folly overlooking the river, the pillars and domed roof twined with climbing white and gold roses. Instead of a table and chairs, the floor was piled with blankets and pillows, and tiny candles flickered here and there even though it was broad daylight.

“Oh,” she breathed, her eyes wide and enchanted. “It’s beautiful.”

They sank down onto the pillows, diving into a picnic hamper overflowing with wine and luxury foodstuffs, and as they ate they gazed out on the magnificent view of the Reach, from the endless rippling fields of grain and flowers to the great river, where the pleasure boats were strung out like stars on a silver ribbon. Jaime sprawled on his elbow beside her, graceful and beautiful and lazy as a yawning lion, and she could not help but smile down at him, helplessly fond and bemused.

Her beautiful golden lover, so utterly out of her league –

“Jaime,” she said, “did you kidnap me for some kind of extravagant proposal?”

He looked up at her. “Is it working?”

She only sighed. “You could have just asked. You didn’t need to make such an elaborate production of it.”

He reached out and tugged at her hand, twining his fingers with hers.

He _smiled_ at her, damn him.

“Brienne,” he said with infinite fondness. “Trust me.”


	7. Photography AU redux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, you’re a raptor trainer,” Jaime said. “How does that work?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strictly speaking, this was supposed to be 5 photography/documentary AUs. It ended up being 5 pieces of AU fluff. But if you've read my work before, I don't know why you'd be surprised.
> 
> Please enjoy!

**1\. Wildlife Photography**

“So, you’re a raptor trainer,” Jaime said. “How does that work?”

Brienne Tarth, tall, dour and extremely homely, only rolled her eyes. “Mr Lannister –”

“Jaime, please.”

“Mr Lannister,” she said firmly, “I’m aware that you’re filming your latest nature documentary –”

“I see my brother has already smoothed my way. Excellent. Do you mind if I –”

“But I have no wish to be featured in it.” She turned away, back to the three lean, vicious looking dinosaurs below.

“Come on, Blue,” he coaxed her, trying out his best smile.

One of the raptors swivelled its head.

“Eyes on me,” Brienne shouted, holding up her palm and pressing her clicker.

The raptors gave her their full attention, staring up at her, their mad green eyes unblinking. _Lannister green_ , Jaime thought, with queasy fascination. His father stared at his enemies like that. Cersei stared at her social rivals.

“Hold,” Brienne called, “hold.” She lifted her palm, and the raptors lifted their heads to follow the move; slowly, very slowly, she walked sideways – the raptors walking with her – until she came to a metal bin filled with chunks of bloody meat.

“Blue!” she called, tossing a chunk to the raptor that had swivelled its head earlier. Jaime started. “Charlie!” Another chunk. “Delta!”

“Is there an Alpha?” Jaime asked, after she had finally released them.

She looked straight at him, her shoulders squared. “ _I’m_ the alpha.”

**

**2\. Fashion**

“Good morning, wife,” her husband said lazily, strolling into Brienne’s studio in his shirt-sleeves and trousers, hands tucked lazily into his pockets. The dangling ends of his bow-tie were startlingly black against his white shirt; his stubble was gold and silver –

“Jaime,” she said, turning towards him with a smile. Her model, Loras Tyrell, barely 20 years old with melting brown eyes and tumbling dark curls, only sighed – he knew when he’d been upstaged.

“I’m going to take a break, Brienne,” he called out, making a swift exit.

“Mm-hmm,” Brienne said, agreeing absently. Her eyes were fixed on Jaime, her fingers itching in that old, familiar way –

Involuntarily, she lifted her camera up to her eye, brought Jaime into focus. As always, the camera loved him; he seemed to have no bad angles. He smiled ruefully at her. “Shall I take a pose?” he asked. “What was Loras advertising?”

“Donyse’s latest menswear line,” she said. “The theme was timeless elegance.”

“I’d have thought he’d be too young for that,” Jaime mused. “I don’t know how well you can pull off timeless when you’re barely 20 years old.”

She snorted. “The next outfit is laid out already. Just toss what you’re wearing in the corner –”

“These clothes,” he protested, “were custom-made by my tailor in Lannisport. ”

“Is your tailor paying for our time?” she demanded. 

He only laughed, shrugged out of his shirt and trousers and hung them up, very carefully, and dressed himself in the next outfit. 

She fixed her camera on him, snapping away furiously; though he was not a model, he was a natural, and his smouldering gaze threatened to melt the camera.

**

Later, when Brienne put her photos for the Donyse shoot up on her computer, Sansa and Margaery looked through them with her, remarking on this or that, scrolling through Loras’ shots – when they came to Jaime’s, Sansa only sighed indulgently.

“One of these days,” she said, “we’re going to have to start paying him money.”

**

**3\. Rolling Stone**

“Rock bitch Cersei Lannister,” Brienne’s editor, Tyrion mused. “It does have a nice ring to it.”

Beside her, Jaime made a faint sound of protest. “Tyrion –”

“Oh, relax Jaime, I’m not going to send Brienne out on tour with our sister alone,” Tyrion said, grinning hugely. “Cersei will eat her alive. So – you can go with her. You’re the best photographer we have, anyway.”

“I don’t want to go on tour with Cersei.”

“Well, then, I’ll send your friend Cunt –”

Brienne cleared her throat.

Tyrion stopped and looked guiltily at her. “Sorry.”

Jaime glowered at him. “ _Hyle Hunt_ ,” he enunciated pointedly – as if he wasn’t the one to coin the alliterative nickname – “couldn’t photograph a fucking still-life. His work is as boring and forgettable as he is –”

“Excellent,” Tyrion said. “We’re all agreed. The tour starts on Sunday night at Storm’s End.”

**

**4\. Reality TV**

“I don’t want any of them,” Jaime said into the camera. He leaned back in his chair and poured himself another drink. “Is that a problem?” With his hair ruffled and his shirt-sleeves rolled up, he looked like a dissolute golden god. It was unfair that one man should be so handsome.

The ratings for this season would go through the roof – if only she could get him to cooperate.

“You’re the Bachelor,” Brienne said, abandoning her role as off-screen prompter. “You have to pick one eventually. That’s the whole point.”

“What if I don’t pick one of _them_?” He fixed his eyes on her, so that his meaning was impossible to mistake.

“Mr Lannister –”

He made a scoffing noise. “I’ve told you, my name is –”

“ _Jaime_. You can’t just –”

He put down his glass, prowled over to her and sank down to his knees before her, so close that she could feel his warm breath through her jeans. “I know you hate roses,” he said, looking up at her with wicked, glinting green eyes. “Shall I just get straight to the point?”

“Most men would start with a kiss,” she breathed.

His eyes danced. “I’m not most men.”

She fisted her hands in his hair and held on as he did his best to convince her.

**

**5\. WWII fighter pilots**

“You’re not afraid of heights are you, old man?” Wing Commander Loras Tyrell asked. “I heard you were some kind of hot-shot in the last war.” Young, handsome, arrogant, and almost as brilliant as Jaime had been in his youth, just the sight of him was enough to put Jaime’s teeth on edge.

“Once,” Jaime said, baring his teeth in a smile. He shrugged, gesturing with his right arm – saw Tyrell’s eyes slide away from the sight of his missing hand. “Not any more.”

“Right then.” Tyrell looked around at the officer’s mess, at the rowdy pilots drinking and singing on their rare down-time. “Tarth!” he shouted, waving at a hulking, tow-headed giant. “Got a babysitting job for you.”

Tarth turned out to be tall, muscular, and cripplingly shy. His eyes – as blue as the sky over the Channel – slid away from Jaime’s and he mumbled something under his breath in greeting.

“Look after Mr Lannister, will you, Tarth? He’s making a ministry propaganda film.”

Just then the air raid siren sounded, and the pilots abandoned their half-finished drinks and scrambled to their feet, rushing out to their aircraft. The air was filled with tension and excitement, and some part of Jaime longed to be part of it once again –

“Are you coming, ser?” Tarth asked.

“Gods, yes,” Jaime said.

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re: #5 - Many moons ago, pygmypuffonacid said: "rival fighter pilots". I said: "Top Gun or Battle of Britain?" This led to the rival merits of motorbikes and shirtless volleyball on the beach versus WW2 spitfires, Brienne disguised as her brother to join the RAF, and one of them being shot down over the Channel (preferably while talking to the other on the radio). Long story short, #5 is bears only a very loose connection to our original discussion, but that is the head canon behind it all.


	8. Green Steel (Zoolander AU pt 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zoolander AU. 
> 
> Mainly to see if I could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IDEK. I made a passing reference to Zoolander. And then I started seeing crack!parallels. And now here I am, hanging my head in shame. 
> 
> There will definitely be more in this AU. I leave it up to you whether that's a good thing or not :-)

“Jaime, I just have a few more questions, if that’s okay,” Brienne said. Just a few more questions, and she could get back to the office, hand in this ridiculous puff-piece, and start to focus on her real investigation.

Jaime Lannister, three time male model of the year, turned in his make-up chair and flashed her his calculated mega-watt smile. He was tall, lithe, and golden, with intense green eyes. “Sure.” 

She’d thought she was braced for the impact of his famous beauty – his picture was _everywhere_ – but in person, the effect was magnified three-fold. 

_He exudes beauty,_ someone had said of him once. _He’s almost *too* good-looking._

“When did you know you wanted to be a model?” 

He appeared to consider this. “I suppose it all started when my sister and I were children,” he said. “We both realised that we were really, really good looking, and thought – well, maybe we could do that as a career. Be professionally good-looking.” 

“Your sister. Cersei Lannister-Targaryen-Baratheon-Tully-Martell-Hightower-Greyjoy. The famous fashion designer.” 

“Exactly.” Jaime nodded. “We’re twins, you know. Two halves of the same soul. Mirror images. We were always photographed together, but when rumours of her – ah –” he trailed off. 

Despite her disdain for the entire fashion world and all its denizens, Brienne was a professional: she had done her research. She’d heard the stories of Cersei Lannister’s infamous cocaine-fuelled rages, of the fate of one of her rivals, Melara Heatherspoon. Her agent had tried to cover it up, but too many whispers had leaked out. 

“– anyway, my career took off and I kept modelling, but she decided she would rather become a fashion designer instead.” 

“You’re known for your signature look,” Brienne said, reading from her notes. “Green Steel.” Gods. She didn’t know how she could say it with a straight face. “What does that –”

He turned on her a look of such intensity, his green eyes smouldering, that she had to stop herself from taking a step back. 

“Wow,” she said, nodding. “That’s – that’s very effective. Do you have any others?” 

“Well, there’s Le Tigre,” he said, turning on her the same smouldering look. “I think it’s a bit softer. And Ferrari, as well –” Again, the same smoulder. “Did you see the calendar I did? I really liked that. It gave me the chance to demonstrate my range and versatility.” 

**

Brienne had seen the calendar. His expressions had all looked *exactly* the same. But perhaps she was missing something. 

**

Two nights later, she watched with a sense of trainwreck fascination as Jaime swaggered up to the stage to accept what he thought was his fourth straight Male Model of the Year Award – only for the presenter to whisper in his ear and break the news that it was the young up-and-comer, Loras Tyrell, who had won.


	9. Orange Mocha Frappucino (Zoolander AU part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you ever think that there might be more to life than being really, really ridiculously good-looking?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Zoolander AU crack :-) Please enjoy!?

1.

It had all been going so _well_.

He was at the peak of his career: rich, famous and incredibly good-looking. His face was everywhere: in fashion magazines; on the television; on giant billboards dominating the great square in King’s Landing.

And then he’d seen Loras’ soft brown curls and slumberous eyes on the red carpet, and he’d had the oddest feeling. It was almost as if he saw himself as he’d once been: 17 years old, confident and beautiful, the whole world at his feet.

When Tom Sevenstreams had announced the Male Model of the Year, Jaime had been so _certain_ –

Except he’d been wrong, and everything had been horribly awkward, and now everyone in the world was laughing at him.

**

As he walked the streets of the city, pondering deeply, everywhere he looked he saw Loras’ face.

If Loras was now the Male Model of the Year, then…what did that mean?

Who was Jaime, if he was not the most beautiful man in Westeros? 

**

He stared curiously at his reflection in a puddle, but for once the sight of his perfect bone structure and tumbling golden curls brought him no joy.

“Who am I?” he asked his mirror-self.

There was no answer.

**

The next day, his three house-mates – golden-haired Lannister cousins, male models all, and flatteringly worshipful of him – tried to comfort him.

But Jaime would have none of it.

“Do you ever think,” he said slowly, sounding out a nebulous concept, “that there might be more to life than being really, really ridiculously good-looking? I mean, maybe we should be doing something more meaningful with our lives. Like…helping people.”

“What people?” Lancel asked.

“I don’t know.” Jaime frowned. “People who need help.”

“Models help people,” Tyrek protested. “They make them feel good about themselves.”

“They also show them how to dress cool and wear their hair in interesting ways,” Wilhem added.

Jaime conceded the truth of this. But still, he felt dissatisfied.

“Do you know what will cheer you up?” Lancel said. The other cousins brightened. “Orange mocha frappucino!” they shouted together, laughing as Jaime finally smiled.

**

If Jaime hadn’t been distracted and stepped away from the impromptu gasoline fight, if he hadn’t frowned down at the magazine cover with his own perfect form on it – nothing he hadn’t seen before, but with that curious headline _Jaime Lannister: A Model, Idiot_ – he might have gone up in flames with his cousins.

It was a sobering thought.

Even though Lancel, Tyrek and Wilhem had chiselled abs and stunning features, they had still died in a freak gasoline fight accident.

Surely there must be some deeper meaning to life. Something more than being rich and famous and beautiful.

Jaime didn’t quite know what that might be, but he meant to find out.

**

2.

His agent, Bronn, was sceptical.

“Go back home?” he repeated, incredulous. 

“I want to do something meaningful with my life, Bronn,” Jaime said. “I have deeper thoughts than modelling on my mind now.”

“Oh, aye, I remember your speech at the funeral.” Bronn sighed. “I still think you’re overreacting. In a couple of weeks, no one will even remember what happened.”

“ _I’ll_ remember,” Jaime retorted. “I don’t think I can ever un-remember. And that article the journalist wrote, the one with the horrible dress sense but beautiful blue eyes –”

“That will blow over in a couple of weeks as well.”

“She wrote such horrible things about me! It really hurt my feelings, Bronn.” Jaime sighed, and cast himself down in a chair in an attitude of despair. “I feel like I need to re-evaluate my whole life. Maybe I could have my own institute. Help kids like me who – well, who have trouble reading, and sometimes feel stupid because of it.”

Bronn tried to look sympathetic. “Jaime,” he said, “you’re like a son to me. I’ve known you since you were a 15 year old kid wearing dresses while your sister wore the pants. Trust me. What do we do when we fall off the horse?”

Jaime frowned thoughtfully. “My father usually has them put down and then fires the groom.”

Bronn paused, blinked. “We get back on!”

“I’m sorry, Bronn,” Jaime said, straightening to his full height and looking resolute. “This is not the time for horse riding. I’m going back home. I need to get in touch with my roots and figure out who I really am.”

** 

He drove his low-slung sleek red Ferrari from King’s Landing to Lannisport, speeding all the way, and roared up the winding mountain highway to Casterly Rock.

The butler came forward to open the car door for him.

“Thank you, Jenkins,” he said, bestowing an absent smile on the old man. “Where are my father and brother?”

“Lord Tywin and Master Tyrion are holding a board meeting in the Hall of Heroes,” Jenkins said. “I would not interrupt them yet, if I were you, Master Jaime.”

Disregarding this advice, Jaime burst in on the board meeting.

The entire board of Lanniscorp, the multi-billion dollar mining conglomerate, turned to stare at him in wonder. He’d chosen his business chic outfit carefully: black snakeskin jacket and trousers with a silky green shirt that really made his eyes pop, and heeled snakeskin boots. His father and brother, dressed in sober, _boring_ black suit and tie, looked surprised to see him.

“Father!” he cried, with a bright smile. “I’ve come back.”


	10. Mer-MAN! (Zoolander AU part 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime looked on, pleased, at the image of himself swimming beneath the sea, bare-chested with a muscular green tail: the visual effects had turned out very well, he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we come to one of my absolute favourite parts of the movie :-)

“What are you doing here, Jaime?” his father asked. He took off his glasses and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, as he always did after a ninety-hour work week. 

“I thought maybe I could work in the corporation with you guys,” Jaime said. He looked imploringly from his father to his younger brother. “We could all be together. The Lannister boys.” 

Tyrion’s brows rose. He cleared his throat. “I just don’t think you’re cut out for the corporate life, Jaime.” 

His little brother was far cleverer than him, and always had been. Jaime had been so proud when he could read properly at age 4, and began winning Young Entrepreneur prizes at age 9. 

“At least let me try, Father,” he said. “I have to find out who I am. I thought I was the most beautiful man in Westeros –”

Tyrion coughed. 

“ – but it turns out that beauty isn’t everything. Maybe I can help people by working with Lanniscorp.”

His father was still frowning. 

“Can’t you even pretend to look pleased, Father?” Jaime pleaded. 

“Damn it, Jaime, I’m a mining mogul, not a guru. I know how to make money, not make a difference.” 

But finally he relented, and agreed to give Jaime a trial. 

** 

It soon became apparent that Jaime did not fit in at Lanniscorp. 

He couldn’t bring himself to wear a plain black suit and tie. His co-workers’ eyes went wide – with admiration, surely? – when he showed up in his carefully chosen ensembles. When he wore a pair of black-framed reading glasses, one of the executive assistants almost swooned – which he took as no more than his due. 

For some reason, they could not find a permanent place for him. Every couple of days, the managers he was assigned to would come to him and say that they’d loved working with him, but they’d arranged for him to be transferred to some other department. 

He didn’t take it personally. 

By the end of the first week, he was sure he had RSI and a nascent back problem. 

“For the gods’ sakes, Jaime, you’ve been working in an office for a week,” his father growled. “Talk to me in 30 years.” 

Jaime, Tyrion and Tywin were relaxing after work in an exclusive club in Lannisport, filled with his father’s business cronies. It was all dark leather and hushed conversation, the clink of expensive crystal and silver-ware. 

Tucked apologetically away near the bar was a discreet television. 

“Is that –” Tyrion made a strangled noise. “Is that one of your ads, Jaime?” 

It was. Jaime looked on, pleased, at the image of himself swimming beneath the sea, bare-chested with a muscular green tail: the visual effects had turned out very well, he thought. 

His mer-self, golden hair drifting and green eyes intent, stared soulfully into the camera and intoned the profound slogan. 

The ad had won a prize of some sort. A Razzie. Whatever that was.

Tyrion choked on his whisky. Jaime tore his attention away from the ad and gently patted him on the back. 

And then he became aware that his father was glaring thunderously at him. More: that the other patrons of the club were – they were _laughing._

“Father?” he asked nervously.

“Why did you have to come back, Jaime?” Tywin asked. “You should have just stayed in King’s Landing.” 

Jaime looked at Tyrion. His brother could not – or would not – meet his eyes. 

Suddenly it was all too much. “I wanted to make a new life for myself!” he cried. “I wanted to come back to my family.” He stood up and looked wildly around the room – he knew he was making a scene and he didn’t care. “I’m sorry I was born with this perfect bone structure! I’m sorry I’m not as clever or as ruthless as you and Tyrion and Cersei! But I thought if I could only excel in my chosen field, even if it was only fashion, then maybe I could make you proud of me, Father.” 

His father stood up as well. The room went silent. 

“You think your male modelling makes me proud?” His eyes blazed, and he seemed on the verge of working himself into a passion – but he only sighed. “No.” He shook his head. “You’re dead to me, Jaime. You’re more dead to me than your poor, dear mother. I just thank the gods she didn’t live to see her son as a – a _mermaid_.”

Jaime blinked rapidly, his eyes blurring with tears. 

“Mer- _man,_ ” he choked out. “Mer-MAN!”

And he stormed out of the club, hardly looking where he was going. 

**

Five minutes later he was staring up at the stars, so bright and wondrous in the night sky. 

Perhaps they had the answer. Perhaps the gods – and the Maiden, his own favourite – really were looking down on him. 

“Who am I?” he asked, as he had been asking since that terrible night when Loras, younger and more beautiful, had risen up to take his throne. 

His phone rang. 

He stared down at it in amazement. Answered the call. 

“Maiden?” he breathed.

“No,” Bronn said. “It’s me. You’ve got to come back, Jaime. Cersei wants you for her Derelicte campaign.”


	11. Derelicte (Zoolander AU pt 4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What is this?” he demanded. “A centre for ants?!”
> 
> (And Cersei unveils the future of fashion: _Derelicte_ )

Cersei’s atelier was housed in the penthouse suite of a great sky-scraper dominating the horizon of King’s Landing. She received him in a vast room, the walls stark white, the only decoration vast blown-up pictures of Cersei’s face and slogans of her past campaigns. She sat enthroned on a great dais like a queen, while Jaime sat on an uncomfortable chair like a supplicant. 

She had a glass of red wine in one hand and was stroking an exquisitely groomed lap dog with the other. It stared beadily at Jaime.

“I guess I’m a little confused, Cersei,” Jaime said. “You’ve never wanted me for your campaigns before. In fact, after – well, after – you swore you would never have anything to do with me again.”

“That was different,” Cersei said. “I didn’t want you before. But now that you’re retired and I can’t have you –” Her red lips curled up in a way that made Jaime very uneasy. “The forbidden fruit must be tasted.” 

When they were younger, Jaime and Cersei had been very close. They had shared their own secret language. They had worn the same clothes and swapped identities all the time, delighting in playing up their mirror-like resemblance. 

They’d gone into modelling together, and their every photoshoot had been shared. At first it had been innocent, a cute pair of identical twins, but as they grew older their work had become edgier. Jaime didn’t mind the photographers who liked playing with gender roles – he’d liked the _Androgyne_ campaign where he and Cersei had modelled both men’s and women’s wear interchangeably – but sometimes he’d had an uneasy feeling that they were becoming too co-dependent. 

When Cersei had done – what she had done – and she’d been forced to quit modelling, Jaime had felt – relieved. He loved his sister of course, but he liked modelling much better without her. 

For one thing, he didn’t have to try and smooth over her sudden rages – 

When Cersei’s assistant, a slim, red-headed girl with bright innocent blue eyes, hurried forward to refill her glass, Jaime winced. He knew what was coming. 

Cersei took one sip and spilled the wine all over her shocked assistant. “Sansa!” she shrieked. “How many times must I tell you – _Arbor_ Red! From the ’75 harvest! Not the ’76!”

“My mistake, Madame!” Sansa cringed. 

“Your mistake indeed!” Cersei said. She fixed the poor girl with her fierce, hypnotic green gaze, like a lion fixing its sights on a gazelle. Sansa gazed back in transfixed fascination, her glossy pink lips trembling – and the staring match went on for just a tad too long. 

Jaime began to feel a little uncomfortable. 

Suddenly Cersei seemed to recall that she had an audience. 

“Yes, Jaime,” she said, turning back to him with a bright, false smile. “Let’s get back to the reason that we’re really here. What I’m willing to give you, if you come out of retirement.”

She strode over to a cloth-covered table. “Without much further ado,” she said, whisking away the cloth, “I give you: The Jaime Lannister Centre for Kids Who Can’t Read Good!”

It was a tiny building, filled with tiny people – no longer than his outstretched hands. Jaime peered at it, frowning, growing ever more wrathful. He knew, when dealing with Cersei, that he had to maintain a position of strength. 

With a great show of temper, he swept the tiny building from the table. 

“What is this?” he demanded. “A centre for ants?!” He held his ground, even in the face of Cersei’s and her assistant’s incredulous stares. “I have a vision!” he declared. 

Cersei’s lips curved. “And so do I, dear brother,” she said. “Let me show you mine.” 

** 

According to Cersei, the future of fashion was _Derelicte_.

Jaime stared, bemused, at the ripped and torn and rotting fabrics, at the broken shoes and plastic bags and the sheer, horrifying tastelessness of it all – but who was he to judge? 

Fashion wasn’t about _taste_. 

“I want you to be the spirit of _Derelicte,_ ” Cersei said. “It’ll be your glorious comeback.”

Jaime only sighed. If this was what he had to do to see his centre become a reality, he supposed he had worn worse clothes – though he couldn’t bring them to mind at the moment. 

“Sounds cool,” he said. 

**

They sent him to an exclusive day spa in the care of a fatherly old man named Qyburn. He didn’t know what they put in the mineral water or the massage oils, but the next thing he knew, his alarm went off – and he woke with a splitting headache and the memories of some very unsettling dreams. 

Someone was hammering at his door. 

Groaning, he forced himself to get up, clutching his aching head, and throw it open – and looked up, and up, into the bright blue eyes of Brienne Tarth.


	12. The Walk-Off (Zoolander AU pt 5)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Loras just said that Jaime could dere- _lick_ his balls!” someone squealed. 
> 
> Brienne looked down at the screen of someone’s phone. Jaime and Loras Tyrell were facing off, up in each other’s faces, their eyes boring into each other. The air crackled with tension. 
> 
> “Are you challenging me to a walk-off?” Loras asked. “Don’t you know I’m crazy?”
> 
> “Oh, yeah,” Jaime said.

“There you are!” Brienne said, when the door finally opened to reveal Jaime Lannister, blinking and sleepy, his golden curls tousled. She breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ve been trying to reach you for a week.” 

It had been long and trying. Something about Cersei Lannister set her nerves to jangling and woke all of her investigative instincts; she had dug deep into her business affairs, and had uncovered a number of strange and baffling threads that she was nowhere close to reconciling. She had tried to get someone – anyone – to talk to her about Cersei, but it was as if there was a code of silence. 

And worse, Jaime had gone missing and no one seemed to care.

“A week?” Jaime squinted at her. “I only saw you on Friday. I’ve been at a _day_ spa – how could I have been missing for a week?” He sighed, and bestowed a kind and gentle smile on her. “Look, I know what this is about,” he said, “and I’m very complimented, but I’m just not interested.”

She frowned at him, baffled. “What?” 

“I can’t sleep with you. My head is killing me.” He reached up, ran his hand through his sleep-tousled curls. Brienne could not help but notice that his shirt rode up to reveal his perfectly toned – and tanned – six-pack. 

Almost absently, he stepped back to let her in. 

“What are you talking about?” she asked. She led the way into his living room, noting the vast space and the polished wooden floors – his apartment must have cost a fortune. There were pictures of him everywhere, his face staring down at her from all the walls. 

Again, he sighed. “Okay, if you just want to fool around a little, I think I can manage that. I don’t mind strong women, you know, and you have very nice eyes –”

Her brain stuttered, but she forced herself back on track.

“I don’t _want_ to sleep with you!” she lied. “I’ve been trying to tell you you’ve been missing for a week.” 

He blinked. His eye fell on his answering machine, and he pressed a button: _You have twelve hundred new messages,_ the automated voice said. 

“That is a bit above average,” he said, frowning. 

“What happened at that spa, Jaime?” 

“I don’t know. A little massage, a little aromatherapy – look, you can’t just come barging into people’s homes, wanting to have sex with them and then changing your mind, then telling them they’ve been at a day spa for a week. It makes no sense!” 

He threw her out. But before he closed the door on her, he said: “By the way – I meant that part about your eyes. Here, let me –” he whisked a tiny cosmetic kit of out of nowhere and, before she could object, went to work with brushes and sponges and strange powders.

And then he smiled sweetly at her. “Cool,” he said – and then slammed the door in her face. 

** 

When she got back to her car, she looked at herself in the rear view mirror. Whatever he’d done, it emphasised her eyes, making them stand out in a way that almost overshadowed the rest of her face. 

** 

That night, after further research discovered a disturbing tendency for male models who had starred in Cersei’s campaigns to die in freak accidents, she found herself arguing with a bouncer outside the city’s most exclusive club. 

“I don’t want to hang out, okay? I just need to speak with Jaime Lannister, please!” she said. 

All around her, the well-dressed and beautiful crowd clamoured. An air of suppressed excitement rushed through them; someone was standing with a phone to their ear, gesturing at the crowd to be quiet – 

“Shh!” they hissed. “Something’s going down inside! Someone’s filming it, look –”

The crowd got out their phones, looked up what appears to be a live feed of the inside of the club. 

“Oh my gods,” a girl said, her eyes bright with avid excitement. “Jaime Lannister and Loras Tyrell just knocked shoulders!” 

And then: “Jaime said that he wasn’t Loras’ brah!”

Oohs and aahs sounded. 

“Loras just said that Jaime could dere- _lick_ his balls!” someone squealed. 

Brienne looked down at the screen of someone’s phone. Jaime and Loras Tyrell were facing off, up in each other’s faces, their eyes boring into each other. The air crackled with tension. 

“Are you challenging me to a walk-off?” Loras asked. “Don’t you know I’m crazy?”

“Oh, yeah,” Jaime said.

Squeals and screams came from all around her. “It’s a walk-off!” someone shouted, and the crowd went wild. 

**

“Do you want to see the real world of male modelling?” Jaime asked her. His eyes were very grim, and his mouth was set; he looked – angry, and determined, as she’d never seen him before. “The one they don’t show you in magazines or the E! channel?”

He was stalking, now, buoyed up by the cheering crowd and his own rage. 

They arrived at a vast, cavernous warehouse, the walls covered with graffiti. The strip lights provided harsh illumination over the long catwalk. Brienne found a spot with a clear vantage point and stared around her in fascination. All around her, the crowd was cheering and whistling, exchanging bets, holding up their phones – clearly excited for whatever was to come. 

Jaime and Loras were up on the catwalk, warming up. Jaime was stretching, bending over in his skin-tight jeans in a way that made Brienne stare; Loras had his eyes closed and was clearly psyching himself up. 

Finally Jaime went to the head of the catwalk, the lights dimmed and brightened, and the music came on. 

It was – a revelation. 

Against her will, she was swept up in the music and the crowd. The atmosphere was electric; it was like a tournament, she thought, and Jaime and Loras were the knights of the modern age. 

She’d never realised it before, being too blinded by his beauty, but Jaime was a tall man, lean and strong, with a gymnast’s grace and trained athleticism. He dominated the catwalk, fierce and powerful, like a lion prowling the savannah. 

She knew nothing about the technical business of modelling, but she stared, entranced, at Jaime: here was a male model in his prime, at the very peak of his powers. 

Loras was younger, more slender, and he had the same grace if not the same fierce presence – he matched everything Jaime did, and threw the challenge back with a defiant flick of his fingers. 

Their moves became ever more elaborate, both models spurring each other on to new heights of skill and athleticism, and the crowd cheered deliriously. Even Brienne found herself whistling and calling out encouragement. 

But eventually Loras, driven into the last ditch, came out onto the catwalk with his eyes staring at nothing, like a man transfixed – 

And he stuck his hand down his jeans, jiggled and twisted and jerked, and eventually pulled off his tight white underwear and held them over his head – to rapturous, hysterical applause. 

[“Are you fucking serious?” Brienne asked no one in particular.]

[“Jaime, you’re not a kid anymore,” someone said. “Don’t do it. You could hurt yourself!”]

As the cheers died down to a low murmur, Jaime stepped out onto the catwalk, his eyes wide and unsure. 

Brienne bit her lip. Surely he wasn’t going to try – 

He did try it. He stuck his hand down his jeans, jiggled and twisted and jerked. 

But in the end, he simply could not replicate Loras’ feat.


	13. The Power of the Tea (Zoolander AU pt 6 - final)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ssshhh,” Loras breathed. He refreshed their cups from a steaming samovar, and the smell of exotic spices rose into the air. “Just give in to the power of the tea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per the original material, this chapter contains a threesome. (Strictly speaking, the movie contained an orgy. I have toned it down a bit.) Just a heads-up, if that's not your thing.

After the walk-off, Brienne caught Jaime’s arm and guided him into her car. His shoulders were slumped, his bright green eyes dulled. She tried to comfort him, to no avail. 

“I may as well be dead,” he muttered, looking anywhere but at her. “I’m nothing if I’m not the best male model in Westeros.”

“No, Jaime,” she said. “You have so much to live for. There’s more to you than just your looks. You’ve got so much skill and experience – Loras practically had to pull off a miracle to beat you on that catwalk.” 

Jaime said something under his breath about turning left – but Brienne, staring at him incredulously, thought she must have misheard.

It was almost a relief when she received the anonymous phone call. 

**

Jorah Mormont – an older, handsome-in-a-weathered-way _hand_ model – revealed to them a strange and outlandish conspiracy. Unshaven, wearing a ragged buccaneer shirt, a fringed sash and leather trousers, his blue eyes lined with crow's feet, he spoke of brainwashing, corporate greed and a fantastic assassination plot. 

His hands were very fine, she had to admit. 

“But why would Cersei want to assassinate Margaery Tyrell?” Brienne asked. 

“She’s younger, more beautiful, and more talented,” Mormont said simply. “Plus, she’s started a campaign for ethical fashion practices that has turned many of the younger designers away from using sweat-shops in Meereen.”

He outlined that a number of unsolved assassinations going back two hundred years had all been committed by male models – mainly due to their strength, agility and extreme suggestibility. 

Jaime nodded slowly, scratching his chin. This late at night, he had a devastatingly attractive layer of stubble; Brienne was momentarily distracted by his unfair and outrageous good looks. 

“But why male models?” he asked. 

Mormont only rolled his eyes. 

** 

“So,” Jaime said. “Cersei has brainwashed me into killing her rival.” He didn’t sound at all surprised or indignant; only resigned.

Brienne glanced at him. “But she’s your sister!” 

“Yes.” He sighed. “She’s still a Lannister though.”

“We need to find somewhere safe until we can figure out how to stop this,” Brienne said. “Where’s the last place anyone would ever think to look for you?” 

Just then, a bus drove past them, Loras Tyrell’s insolent smile and tumbling curls staring out at them from its side. 

**

“Hey,” Loras said, when he opened his door to their insistent knocking. “What’s up?” He looked Jaime up and down, his mouth curling in a smirk. 

“We need a place to lay low,” Brienne said. “Jaime’s sister brainwashed him into killing your sister.”

Loras looked impressed. “Whoa! That’s cold.” 

“We just need somewhere to stay until we can figure things out.”

“Sure!” Loras beamed warmly. “Stay as long as you like. But,” he said, lifting his finger, “first – J-Lan and I have some things to work out. Why’ve you been acting so messed up towards me, man?”

Jaime’s eyes slid away, uncomfortable. “I don’t know. Why’ve you been acting so messed up towards _me_?” 

“You go first,” Loras insisted. 

Jaime actually scuffed his toe. “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I guess – I guess I was a little bit jealous. When we were young, my sister and I were told by an old woods witch that someday someone younger and more beautiful would steal our crowns. I thought – I thought she was talking about you.” 

Loras swallowed. “Come on. You’re Jaime Lannister! The most beautiful man in Westeros! Do you know what it’s like to be a young male model in your shadow?” 

Jaime looked back up, his green eyes growing brighter. 

“Hey,” Loras said. “You wanna hear something crazy? Your work with Arthur Dayne on the Kingswood Brotherhood campaign?” He put his hand on his heart, and his liquid brown eyes trembled. “It made me want to be a model.” 

Jaime smiled, slowly, a genuinely warm, delighted smile – it lit his face, and made him appear more beautiful than any smouldering intensity. 

“I’m sorry I was jealous,” Jaime said. “I really love your work.”

“No, I’m sorry _I_ was jealous,” Loras said.

Right then and there, they embraced. 

**

Five minutes later, Jaime and Brienne were sitting barefoot on Loras’ embroidered cushions, exotic music and the smell of incense in the air, sipping some curiously potent tea. Brienne had shed her jacket and rolled up her sleeves, and her hair had fallen out of its strict gelled lines. 

“So tell me, why do you hate models, Brienne?” Loras asked. 

“Honestly?” She considered. “I think they’re vain, stupid and totally self-centred.” 

Loras nodded slowly, his brown eyes soulful. "I totally agree with you,” he said. “But how do you feel about male models?” 

Jaime almost fell over laughing. “Oh, snap!” he said, and he and Loras fist-bumped. 

“No, but seriously,” Loras said. “Cos that article you wrote about my man J here?” he shook his head mournfully. “That was cruel and unnecessary, you know.” 

Brienne sighed. “I know, and I’m sorry, Jaime. But, well – I’m not what you’d call conventionally attractive. Everyone made fun of me when I was a girl. I’d look at fashion magazines, and I’d see all these perfect, beautiful, unbelievable skinny women – and I couldn’t understand why I didn’t look like them. I mean – look at me.” She gestured to herself, indicating her whole body: her mismatched features; her straw-like hair; her broad shoulders and powerful thighs and non-existent chest.

Loras made a low sound, his eyes fixed on her shoulders. “Most of those magazines are photo-shopped,” he said absently. “Those women aren’t real.” 

Jaime _looked_ at her, a far from clinical once-over – and his eyes went very dark. “I’m looking,” he said. She felt almost pinned in place by his scrutiny. “I’ve seen hundreds of women with perfect proportions and amazing bone structure. But you – you’re _real_ , Brienne. You’re strong and powerful and – and _real_.”

Loras reached out, squeezed her upper arm. “Gods,” he breathed. “You’re built like a tank. I’d let you hold me down any day.” 

She felt strangely defensive. “There’s no need to mock me!” 

“Easy, easy,” Loras said, holding up his hands. “I’m not mocking you. But – I think we should get naked.” 

He looked at Brienne, and then at Jaime, who nodded eagerly. 

“Ssshhh,” Loras breathed. He refreshed their cups from a steaming samovar, and the smell of exotic spices rose into the air. “Just give in to the power of the tea.”

Brienne looked at Loras, all dark brown eyes and tumbling curls, doe-soft with an encouraging smile. She looked at Jaime, all golden beauty and bright, hungry green eyes. 

Both men stripped off their shirts, and looked at her expectantly. 

Slowly, her blood beating heavy in her veins, Brienne drank the tea. 

** 

The light was dim and golden. The music was low and sensual, and the scent of incense was strong on the air. Brienne sighed as Jaime’s lips travelled slowly down her throat and chest, following the path of his nimble fingers unbuttoning her shirt. 

Behind her, Loras was mouthing her shoulders and the nape of her neck, murmuring approval of her strength and – surprisingly – her freckles. 

“Freckles are so hot right now,” he breathed, slipping her shirt from her shoulders. 

Jaime made a low growling sound against her belly. Brienne giggled, then twitched as his fingers went to the waistband of her trousers. He looked up at her, his eyes questioning – when she nodded, breathless, he stripped her down to her underwear and lay her down on the embroidered cushions, the silk both soft and scratchy against her bare skin. 

Above her, Loras paused to cup Jaime’s unshaven jaw and draw him in for a long, slow kiss. Brienne watched, wide-eyed, until Jaime drew away with a smile and leaned over her, kissing her with slow, lazy, confident ease. 

“Your eyes are so blue,” he murmured. “The purest blue in all the world.” 

As she gazed up into his own green eyes, Loras knelt between her legs and slowly kissed his way up from her knees to her inner thighs, pausing until she looked at him in surprise – 

“Yes?” he asked, his fingers toying with her plain cotton underwear. 

“Oh,” she breathed, “do you really –”

“He really does,” Jaime whispered in her ear, cradling her against his chest. “He wants to worship at your altar. And when he’s done, I want to take his place.”

With a long, sighing “yes”, Brienne lay back against Jaime and gave in to a long night of pure, hedonistic enjoyment. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so I bring my epic crack AU to a close. (I think the joke has run its course now.) Just imagine that things unfold mostly as per the movie: 
> 
> \- with the help of his friends, Jaime is able to resist his brainwashing and not kill Margaery;  
> \- Jaime turns left and finally unveils his second look Magnum, which stops a ninja star in its tracks and impresses everyone, even Tywin; and  
> \- Jaime opens the Jaime Lannister Centre for Kids Who Can't Read Good, and he and Brienne live happily ever after.


	14. Beach-bum!Jaime (Canon AU, modern AU, crack)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5 variations on the theme of Jaime living by (or in) the sea.

**1\. The Hermit of Tarth**

The sky was blue above Tarth, and the sea even bluer still.

Brienne ran down the winding road from Evenfall Hall to the cliffs overlooking the bay. The smallfolk waved to her as she passed, calling out laughing encouragement – she laughed and hurried on, determined to escape before Septa Roelle even realised she was gone.

Carved into the towering black cliffs was a zigzagging stone stair. Carefully, she made her way down, down, the wind tugging at her hair, until she reached the white sand beach at the foot of the cliff, and the ramshackle driftwood hut built high above the tideline.

This was the hermit of Tarth’s house.

And the hermit himself was seated in a driftwood chair on his tumbledown porch, carving a piece of wood with a tiny belt-knife. He looked up when she called out to him, and a smile broke through his shaggy golden beard.

“Lady Brienne,” he said, standing up to meet her as she ran up to stand before him. “I see Septa Roelle has turned her back again.”

The hermit’s name was Jason Storm. He’d come to Tarth when Brienne was very young, in the earliest days of King Robert’s reign, and had built his driftwood house on this beach with materials washed up from the sea. He lived very simply, on fish and seaweed and shellfish, and he traded with the other smallfolk for cloth and bread and cheese, selling them his driftwood carvings.

At first, the smallfolk had been a bit wary of the stranger from the mainland. But when he’d saved Galladon from drowning, they’d accepted him as one of their own and freely welcomed him, though he rarely ventured far from his reclusive home.

“She thinks I am in the sept, praying for the Mother’s guidance,” Brienne said with a grimace.

“More fool her, then,” Jason chuckled. He ducked inside his hut and came out carrying two long, wooden practice swords weighted with lead. “Here,” he said, tossing one to her. “Let’s see how much you remember.”

She took the hilt in a careful two-handed grip and assumed her stance. He circled around her, finally nodding his approval.

“Good,” he said with a smile. “Now – hit me, if you can.”

**

**2\. The Tarth Identity**

Just over a month ago, Brienne had been pulled unconscious from the sea: a blank slate with no memory of her past, only language skills and muscle memory. In trying to find out who she was, she’d uncovered a vast spider’s web –

But that was all over. She’d left it all behind, and she was moving _towards_ something now: on their long overnight journey Jaime had spoken of a surf shop, right by the beach. Of a life lived by the sun and the sea, without fear or shadow.

Brienne didn’t know if she liked surfing, or even if she knew how.

But she looked forward to finding out.

**

[She drove through long, winding roads lined with flowering bougainvillea and hibiscus to a tiny beach town, sleepy and unpretentious, a golden curve of beach and calm blue-green sea.

And there it was, just as Jaime had described it: _a little beach-house built over the water_. _The waves go shush, shush, shush_ _as they lull you to sleep._

When she got out of her car, the door opened: and there _he_ was, smiling at her.

“Can I stay with you?” she asked. “Just for a little while?”

“You can stay forever,” he said. “Welcome home, Brienne.”]

**

**3\. The Arrangement (Redux)**

Her meetings had run very late, and an accident on the road had slowed traffic to a painful crawl; by the time she pulled up on the street outside Jaime’s discreet Flea Bottom apartment, it was past ten o’clock.

It was a good neighbourhood. Quiet. Respectable. Safe.

Well worth the expense.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, when he answered the door to her knock. She held up a bottle of wine as an apology. “Have you had dinner yet?”

His mouth curled in a smile. He stepped aside to let her in, deliberately standing too close so she had to brush against him – when he closed the door, he wrapped his right arm around her waist and pulled her closer still.

He was wearing a soft, faded t-shirt and cotton pyjama pants. His feet were bare. “I was just about to go to bed,” he murmured in her ear, dragging his stubbled jaw against her cheek. She shuddered at the brush of his warm breath. “You can come too, if you like.”

She threaded her hand into his curls and tugged, dragging his mouth to hers and kissing him, long and slow and sweet.

**

“Jaime,” Brienne said, “this arrangement between us –”

“Hmm?” he murmured, kissing his way down her quivering belly.

“You’ll let me know if it no longer suits you?” she breathed, her head falling back as he coaxed her thighs open – she sighed, long and luxurious, as he laved her with his too-clever tongue.

He lifted his head, fixed her with a look equal parts exasperation and amusement. “Trust me,” he said, crawling up her body with feline grace. He kissed her, the taste of her on his tongue and his lips, and lifted her legs up around his waist. “I wouldn’t stay if it didn’t please me.”

He drove into her with a long, luxurious sigh. Oh, he filled her so well, knew exactly what she needed, and he seemed to revel in bringing her pleasure. She held him close against her, enjoying the weight of his body and the feel of him inside her, and abandoned herself to the moment.

**

She’d met him at a beachside bar in Dorne. He’d been barefoot, unshaven, his curling hair salt-bleached – just another beach bum, she’d thought, though far more handsome than most.

He’d bought her a drink and flirted with her, and she’d taken him back to her hotel for the night. In the morning, she’d gathered up all her courage and made him an offer –

He’d looked at her so solemnly. “You don’t know anything about me,” he’d said. “I could be anyone.”

“I know _you_ ,” she’d replied. “I think I’d know you anywhere.”

**

Afterwards, pressed close together, Brienne stroked her fingers over his sharp jaw, his soft mouth, his high cheekbones. He blinked, his long, golden eyelashes brushing over her skin.

“Sweetling,” Jaime murmured, low and lazy and affectionate, “I think I could stay like this forever.”

**

**Mermaid and Shark AU**

**(a) Mermaid!Jaime and Shark!Brienne**

“Look at me,” Brienne said, opening her great jaw to reveal long rows of razor-sharp, serrated teeth. “I’m hideously ugly.”

Objectively, it was true. Brienne’s rough skin, rather than a uniform sleek grey, was blotchy and covered with countless spots; she was far larger than most of her kind, her body enormous and muscular, her fins vast and her tail hugely powerful.

Jaime made a low scoffing sound. He shrugged, his golden hair drifting about him like a golden halo. Everything about him was beautiful, from his perfectly formed human torso to his muscular tail. Even his missing hand.

“Who cares if you’re ugly when you have a tail that can beat down a wall?” he asked. “When you can tear a mer apart in two bites, and you can make all the other denizens of the sea scatter in terror?”

It was no comfort, not really. Jaime seemed to admire her strength, but perhaps that was only because she had saved him from the Bloody Mummers; even Renly and Lady Catelyn had only seemed to appreciate her for her strength.

“I think you’re magnificent,” Jaime said, stroking his hand over her back. “Such strength, and such gentleness; I don’t care what you look like, I can see what you are inside. And besides,” he added, “your eyes are bluer than even the ocean.”

**

**(b) Shark!Jaime and Mermaid!Brienne**

“Look at me,” Brienne said. “I’m hideously ugly.”

Objectively, it was true: her shoulders were too broad; her tail too strong; her features too mismatched and her nose twice-broken; her lips too lush – and all over, she was covered with freckles, even on her tail.

Jaime made a low scoffing sound. He swam lazily around her, his tail swishing; everything about him was beautiful, from his glorious uniform grey sleekness to his somehow elegant head, so deadly and yet so perfectly formed.

Even his right fin, hacked off by the Bloody Mummers and replaced by a golden prosthetic.

“Who cares if you’re ugly when you can carry a full-grown shark in your arms?” he asked. “When you can beat all those other cunts who call themselves mer-knights into the ground?”

It was no comfort, not really. Jaime seemed to admire her strength, but perhaps that was only because she had saved him from the Bloody Mummers, and had supported him when he could not swim without his right fin; even Renly and Lady Catelyn had only seemed to appreciate her for her strength.

“I think you’re magnificent,” Jaime said, brushing past her, nudging her with his nose, so that she stroked her hand over his back. “Such strength, and such gentleness; I don’t care what you look like, I can see what you are inside. And besides,” he added, “your eyes are bluer than even the ocean.”

**

**5\. Jaime owns a bar on a tropical island**

It was a long, lazy afternoon. The island sweltered in the late summer heat, and tourists and locals alike flocked to the air-conditioned bars, restaurants and coffee shops lining the main street of the little beach town.

Jaime’s bar was neither air-conditioned nor on the main street. It was a converted old beach-house with great wide windows, polished floors always dusted with sand, and a large shady verandah overhanging the shallow water. Cool breezes drifted in from the sea, setting the gauzy curtains drifting; he spent most of his time sprawled in a cane chair on the verandah, a beer in his left hand and low music on the radio, listening to the wind in the palm trees and the endless shush, shush shush of the waves.

Perhaps it was the bar’s ramshackle appearance, or its out of the way location – but for some reason he had very few customers, and that was exactly how he liked it.

Brienne, the manager he’d hired so he could spend his days lazing about, was always trying to get him to make changes. Add new drinks to the menu. Fix up the exterior and advertise, in the hope of attracting more customers.

“Listen, Tarth,” he said lazily, “the point of owning a bar on a tropical island is not to attract customers.”

“It’s not?” she asked, her blue eyes narrowed.

“Of course not. If this place becomes popular, I’ll have to sell up and find a new bar on an even smaller island. No. The point of owning a bar on a tropical island is to sit here on my verandah and watch the sun go down, listening to the wind and the waves, and sleep every night through without dreams.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #2 - a continuation of a drabble from chapter 44 of Stray Sparks
> 
> #3 - a redux (with added p0rn) of chapter 12 of Stray Sparks 
> 
> #4 - I know it's crack but I'm tempted to see if I can fit canon events to this AU
> 
> #5 - this is based on a prompt I submitted for the fic exchange. The lovely tall_wolf_of_tarth wrote "Cinnamon Wind" in response, and their fic is so much better and more richly detailed than this little drabble (seriously - go check it out, it's amazing!) but I couldn't let the prompt go without writing *something*. I've got it out of my system now :-)


	15. Henchman (modern AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Brienne is Lord Tywin's henchman, and spends her time rescuing stray Lannisters from their own folly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the sake of this souffle-light piece of fluff, let's pretend that modern Lord Tywin is less of an iron-fisted tyrant than his illustrious ancestor.

When she was 18 years old, Brienne joined the army. 

She spent one year as a basic grunt, and then moved into the Special Forces; she had such an aptitude for it that at the end of her first tour she immediately signed up for a second. 

When she was 24 years old she saved the life of Lord Tywin Lannister, the Hand of the King. 

He stared at her with his cold, green-gold eyes, and his thin mouth seemed to curl up for the merest instant – 

“Lannisters always pay their debts,” he said. “How do you think your actions should be repaid?” 

She had not saved him for any thought of gain or reward. She was a proud soldier of the Seven Kingdoms, not a mercenary. 

Still – perhaps Lord Tywin was joking. 

“If you’re offering,” she said, venturing a smile, “the costs of restoring Evenfall Hall are crippling –”

“I will pay for the necessary repairs.” 

She blinked at him. 

“And when you’re done with the military, come and see me. I can always find suitable employment for a woman of your skills.” 

“My lord, you can’t just –” 

“I believe loyal service should be rewarded,” he said. “You will not find me ungenerous.”

**

When she was 26 years old, her unit was sent deep into the backwoods of the Riverlands to rescue Jaime Lannister. 

Things went – very badly.

** 

Afterwards, she left the army and went to work for Lord Tywin. 

He was not ungenerous. He was not ungenerous at all – the pay was staggering, and the conditions generous beyond belief; for the first time in her life, she found herself with more than enough money. 

Lannisters believed in paying their debts. With interest. 

** 

At first, life as a security consultant – _one of my father’s henchmen,_ Jaime said bitterly – was fairly straightforward. 

She tested security systems and provided advice on security measures. She conducted security checks and investigated security breaches. 

It was well within her range of skills. But it did not stretch them.

“Why did you hire me, if this is all I’m doing?” she asked Lord Tywin. “Anyone with an ounce of skill could do this work.” 

He stared at her for a long, long time. 

“You think you can handle more difficult situations?” 

“You know I can,” she said. 

** 

Jaime had shaved his head, grown a beard, and had not left his apartment for weeks.

“Drag him out of his self-pity, if you can,” Lord Tywin ordered her. “Tell him that he still has another hand.”

She did not tell Jaime that. But she did tell him to stop feeling sorry for himself, made him shower and change his clothes, and dragged him out into the fresh air and sunlight. 

**

Next, Lord Tywin sent her to Dorne. 

“My daughter has gone to Sunspear with a group of toadies and flatterers,” he said. “The gods only know who she will meet there, or what she will get it into her head to do. Stop her from doing anything foolish.” 

It was easier said than done. 

Cersei Lannister and her entourage were booked into the gaudiest and most expensive hotel in Sunspear. Their movements weren’t difficult to trace – even in this extravagant city, Cersei made her presence known – but when Brienne finally found her she was standing at the altar of a 24-hour marriage chapel, about to marry her third husband.

Brienne waited until the celebrant intoned the words “speak now, or forever hold your peace” and then stood up and said in loud, clear tones: “I object!” 

** 

Cersei was not happy, of course. Though when she sobered up the next day, perhaps she was just a little glad not to find herself Mrs Kettleblack. 

When Brienne returned to Casterly Rock with Cersei in tow, Lord Tywin gave her a grudging nod of approval.

** 

When she was 27 years old, Tyrion Lannister ran away with a travelling circus. 

Brienne bought him back. 

Not before the ringmaster offered her a place as the circus’ strong-woman, though. 

** 

For the next year or so, it seemed that Brienne spent most of her time rescuing stray Lannisters from their own folly. 

Lancel fell in with a fundamentalist cult. Daven became entangled with a stripper named Gatehouse Aimee. Gerion was shipwrecked on the Smoking Sea. Tyrek vanished into the King’s Landing underworld, and Brienne took great pleasure in kicking down doors and knocking criminals’ heads together. 

[Myrielle and Cerenna dropped out of their business classes and opened a bakery. They asked Brienne to intercede with Lord Tywin on their behalf.]

When Tyrion’s too-clever tongue led to his being seized and put on trial high in the ancient fastness of the Eyrie, Lord Twyin sent Brienne to get him out. 

Once again, she arrived just in the nick of time: Tyrion demanded trial by combat. 

“I believe I still have the right,” he said grandly. “The law has not yet been repealed.”

“And who will fight on your behalf?” the Lady of the Eyrie demanded, as icy wind whistled through the hall from the open Moon Door. 

Tyrion looked around, peering through the crowd of onlookers. Though he put on a fine show of nonchalance, Brienne saw that he was not nearly as confident as he appeared. 

“I will fight for him,” Brienne said, stepping forward on cue. 

Tyrion delighted smile was almost – almost – free of irony or sarcasm.

She fought a duel – with _sword_ and _shield_ – to prove Tyrion’s innocence. 

** 

“Have any of us ever thanked you?” Tyrion asked. 

“You don’t need to,” Brienne replied. “Your father –”

“My father pays you, yes,” Tyrion said. “He believes in gold rather than gratitude. But you’ve rescued so many of us by now that you’ve become quite one of the family.”

Brienne looked away. “I couldn’t save Jaime. Not wholly.” 

Tyrion patted her on the hand. “You got him out alive,” he said. “I’d rather have three quarters of a brother than none at all.” 

** 

When Brienne was 28 years old, she and Jaime finally stopped dancing around each other. In the beginning it was as much fighting as fucking, but it quickly became sweeter, slower – intimacy creeping up on them, unlooked for but not unwelcome. 

She thought that Lord Tywin might object. But when he called her into his office and she stood before him at parade rest, eyes straight ahead, he did not rage or threaten but only stared at her for a long, uncomfortable time. 

“Well,” he said finally. “You’re strong-willed and competent, at least. Frankly, it’s better than I hoped for.”

She frowned a little. “My lord? Does this mean that you – approve?” 

“I told you: loyal service should be rewarded. If Jaime is the reward you choose –”

She flushed brick-red. “I don’t –”

“Don’t you?” He leaned back in his chair. She could not meet his gaze. 

“We haven’t – we haven’t spoken of marriage. Or long-term commitment.”

“Or anything at all, it seems,” Lord Tywin said. “Must I say it for him? Brienne Tarth, if you will do me the honour of marrying my son, you will make me a very happy man.”

** 

When Brienne was 29 years old, her employment as one of Lord Tywin’s henchmen came to an end on her wedding to his son. 

That didn’t mean she stopped rescuing Lannisters from their own folly, though. 

**


	16. Curfew (Modern AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Where are you going?” Jaime asks. 
> 
> She squares her shoulders. “It’s Sunday. I need to go back to my flat and collect my mail. Do my washing. And – and buy groceries.”
> 
> He makes a dismissive noise and waves his hand. “Do your washing here,” he says. “We can order groceries in. And you really should have your mail re-directed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Wirette, who prompted: Brienne lives a long way out of King's Landing. When the curfew is imposed, Jaime offers to let her stay with him during the week.

“Where are you going?” Jaime asks. 

He’s sprawled on the couch, his eyes closed. 

She squares her shoulders. “It’s Sunday. I need to go back to my flat and collect my mail. Do my washing. And – and buy groceries.”

He makes a dismissive noise and waves his hand. “Do your washing here,” he says. “We can order groceries in. And you really should have your mail re-directed.” 

“Jaime,” she says, taking a slow breath. Sometimes it’s easier to deal with him that way. “You do know this is only a temporary arrangement. I don’t really live here.” 

He opens his lazy green eyes and blinks at her. “The curfew’s been in place for two months.”

“I am grateful for you letting me stay during the week,” she sighs. “I realise it must be an imposition –”

He waves her thanks away. “I offered, didn’t I?” 

“And I know that not everyone likes cats –”

“I love Lady Whiskers.” 

“But I didn’t go back to my flat last weekend. Or the weekend before that. Jaime, surely I have to go home at some point?” 

** 

The thing is, Brienne lives not in King’s Landing proper but in a small town about an hour’s drive to the north. When the curfew was imposed, given her irregular hours and the long commute, Jaime had offered to let her share his inner-city apartment during the week. On the weekends she would return to her own flat. 

Their arrangement works perfectly well. She enjoys Jaime’s company. He has a nasty tongue and a dark sense of humour, but he’s always respected her competence and never thought less of her because she’s a woman, and an ugly one at that.

Plus, Lady Whiskers adores him. 

But – 

Somehow, ‘going back on the weekend’ has become ‘going back on Sunday’, and lately she’s been strangely reluctant to do even that. 

There are all sorts of excuses. Lady Whiskers hates the travelling carrier and yowls horribly whenever she’s taken away from Jaime. It’s not worth going all that way only to come back less than twelve hours later. 

But the main reason – the one she doesn’t want to admit, even to herself – is that she’s become – accustomed – to Jaime’s company. It’s difficult to go back to her tiny one-room flat, which feels small and lonely without Jaime’s oversized presence. 

But there’s no need to tell him that. 

**

Still. 

That night, sitting on her couch alone, she re-watches an episode of their favourite television show. It’s not the same without him pressed warmly against her, without his lazy commentary. 

In the end, it comes down to a simple decision.

** 

“I’m back,” she says the next day. 

Jaime works from home, often in his pyjamas. He’s sprawled on the couch again, wearing house slippers and novelty socks, and Lady Whiskers – who had refused to go home with her yesterday – is perched in his lap, purring. She opens her eyes – as green and lazy as Jaime’s – and stares at Brienne. 

“I redirected my mail,” she says. “And brought everything I need from – from my flat.” She pats the wheeled suitcase beside her, feeling just a little awkward. “I hope you don’t mind.” 

Jaime opens his own green eyes. “It’s about time,” he says with a smile. “Welcome home, Brienne.”


	17. Modern AU divorce fic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I want a divorce,” she said. 
> 
> “Why?” he asked. “What will that change?”
> 
> (Angst!alert)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I was playing around with dialogue and I ended up writing a sad divorce ficlet. It's based on the situation in "Return on Investment". I don't know if there'll be any more to this, but if inspiration does come I'll add it to this collection.

“I want a divorce,” she said.

“Why?” he asked. “What will that change?”

She hesitated. Despite their impulsive marriage in their first year of university – _look, you need money and I have millions –_ they’d never really lived as man and wife.

There had been a spark, once – or so Brienne had imagined – but she’d shied away from it, too afraid of losing their friendship to reach out for more. And even then, she’d known that he and Cersei –

“It will put an end to the lie," she said finally.

“What lie? I said the words. So did you. It was no lie.”

“Jaime,” she sighed. “We’ve never even –”

“What’s that got to do with marriage?” he asked. “Our business affairs are hopelessly entangled. If either one of us pulls out, everything falls apart.”

“That’s not –”

“It’s a more binding basis than many a love match.”

She flinched. “Marriage is not a business deal.”

“It is, if you’re a Lannister,” he said.

**

The thing is, Brienne was hopelessly entangled with the Lannisters.

She’d met Jaime – and Cersei – in her first year of university. She had interned at Lanniscorp with Cersei. They’d both been taken under Tywin Lannister’s wing, had worked their way up the ranks: sisters-in-law, reluctant allies and bitter rivals, locked in an open war for Tywin’s approval – and a secret war for Jaime’s affection.

Brienne was his wife. Cersei was his lover.

It had gone on for years, and Brienne was tired of it. Tired of the ruthlessness, and the constant power-struggles, and the endless high-octane burn of time and energy it took to be a Lannister of Casterly Rock.

She wanted to go home. She wanted to go back to the girl she had once been, innocent and unworldly and dreaming of changing the world – before she’d ever met Jaime Lannister and his beautiful sister.

**

“Jaime,” she said, “I don’t care anymore. I don’t even care that Cersei will win. I’m going back to Tarth, even if it all falls apart.”

“Wait –” he reached out, caught her wrist. She stared at him, brows raised –

“We don’t have to get a divorce.”

“Yes, we do,” she said, with terrible finality. And she broke free of his hold, and walked out the door – closing it firmly behind her.

**


	18. Gifts (canon-divergence)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five gifts Jaime offered Brienne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little bit of fluff. Hopefully it brightens your day.

When Jaime was 14 years old, Sumner Crakehall sent him to Riverrun on an urgent errand. He stopped at Storm’s End on the way, and there he met Lord Selwyn Tarth and his lady, and their newborn daughter.

Jaime had no interest in babes. Still, he mouthed the appropriate courtesies and offered a gift - a small hand carved wooden lion he had meant for Tyrion. 

He would carve Tyrion another. 

** 

When Jaime was 28 years old, he won a great tourney. It had been a hard-fought battle, and he was flushed and exhilarated with triumph. When they gave him the crown of red roses for the Queen of Love and Beauty, he sought out Cersei on the dais - but she was not present. 

Shrugging, he turned to the viewing stands for the nobility and his attention was caught by a pair of bright blue eyes in the homeliest face he’d ever seen. A maid of perhaps four and ten, man-tall and painfully awkward - 

He rode over to her. Mouth curling in a smile, he offered her the crown - and laughed as she recoiled. 

“No?” he asked. 

Her mouth firmed. She glowered at him sullenly. “I would prefer a blade, ser.” 

He unsheathed his wickedly sharp belt-knife - the hilt studded with rubies - wrapped it in a scrap of white torn from his cloak, and offered it to her with a bow. 

She took it with a mistrustful frown. 

** 

When Jaime returned to King’s Landing a new man - or perhaps the man he was always meant to be - he offered her a Valyrian steel sword and a suit of blue armour.

** 

Not many months later, when he watched over her, shivering and wracked with fever on the Quiet Isle, he offered her his hand.

**

When the sun finally rose to end the Long Night, after long weeks and months of darkness and despair, he offered her his heart.


	19. Gifts redux (Brienne’s POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five gifts Brienne received from Jaime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for such a wonderful response to Gifts. For maximum fluff to tide you over today, here is Brienne’s POV.

When Brienne was very young, her favourite toy was a hand-carved wooden lion with a roaring mouth and a great mane.

Her father could not remember where it had come from. 

“Some young lordling at Storm’s End,” he told her once. “A good-looking young lad. He had blond hair, I think.”

When Brienne heard that she was to be betrothed to a young boy from Nightsong, she imagined him as a good-looking young lordling with blond hair.

**

“A dagger is no fit gift for a lady!” Septa Roelle said. “You would have done better to accept the crown of roses, though I’m sure he meant it for a mockery.”

Brienne was sure as well. The Kingslayer’s handsome face - surely far too handsome, for a man of his odious reputation - had been curled in a mocking smile. 

When she had told him that she would prefer a blade, it had tipped into something warmer and more genuine. 

And then - and then instead of a crown of awful red roses he had offered her his own dagger, sheathed in a strip of cloth cut from his white Kingsguard cloak -

“You’ll have to return it to him, of course,” Septa Roelle said.

Brienne closed her hands firmly over the hilt, her fingers stroking over the strip of cloth. “No,” she said. 

**

Jaime gave her a magic sword.

Staring into his bright green eyes, she made a solemn vow to wield it only in an honourable cause.

**

Ever afterwards, she could never remember what took place on the Quiet Isle.

She remembered shivering, feeling cold and hollow inside, and begging Jaime to hold her as though he could keep her from breaking apart. She remembered his solid warmth, and the smell of him: sweat and leather and steel.

She remembered the crimson weight of his cloak as he settled it about her shoulders, and the feel of his hand in hers, bound together by cloth. 

They said the words, the Elder Brother told her, afterwards. They said the words, and Jaime held her until her fever broke, and then she woke wrapped in his cloak, and he was gone -

**

When the sun rose after the Long Night, bringing the first dawn they had seen in months, when they woke to find themselves bathed in golden morning light, he turned to her and offered her his heart, and she offered hers in return. 

**

[When they returned to Tarth and she showed him her childhood bedroom, the first thing he saw was the ancient carved lion, scarred and battered - 

“I remember that,” he said with a bemused smile. “I was no more than a boy, and you must have been a babe in arms -“

And then his eyes fell on the dagger, still wrapped in faded white wool. “Oh,” he said. “So that was you as well? A sullen, glowering maid who preferred blades over flowers.” And he laughed, and pulled her close, and kissed away her blushing protestations.

“I should have known,” he said. “You were standing before me all this time.]


	20. Possession II - The Feast (Canon AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They say he is very handsome,” Brienne said, peering out of her window at the arriving party from Storm’s End. “Tall and black-haired, with blue eyes.” 
> 
> **
> 
> Renly comes to Tarth. Brienne dances with him, as if in a dream. 
> 
> If only the ghost in her head would stop making comments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a continuation of "Possession", which can be found at chapter 4 of this collection. Chronologically, it takes place before the end of that story. You don't need to have read the first part to make sense of this - all you need to know is that Brienne has Jaime's ghost in her head.

When he came of age, Renly Baratheon, the young Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, visited Tarth as part of a grand tour of his bannermen’s castles.

“We will hold a welcome feast for him,” her father said. “Show him the hospitality of the Sapphire Island.”

The ladies of the castle were all a-twitter with the news – including Brienne.

“They say he is very handsome,” Brienne told Jaime, peering out of her window at the arriving party from Storm’s End. “Tall and black-haired, with blue eyes.”

 _All Baratheons have black hair and blue eyes,_ Jaime said. _As I discovered, to my cost._ There was a deep undercurrent of bitterness to his mental voice. 

She ignored his dark mood, and crossed over to stand before her looking glass.

Usually, she hated looking at her reflection – in her mind’s eye, she was more familiar with Jaime’s face than her own. Jaime at least had liked looking in the mirror.

But she drew in a resolute breath and took a long look at herself: too-tall; too-muscular; too ugly.

Jaime looked too. _Your shoulders are getting stronger,_ he remarked. _You can start wearing heavy armour soon._

He made no remark on her face, or her freckles, or her lank hair.

She picked up the dress she was to wear to the feast and held it up to herself. Her shoulders slumped. “It looks hideous.”

 _You should wear tunic and breeches,_ Jaime said. _They would suit you better. Something blue._

“I couldn’t,” she said. “Not to greet the Lord Paramount.”

_Well, then – you must do as you see fit._

**

She wore the dress. It looked hideous.

But Lord Renly still danced with her, laughing kindly and waving away her flustered apologies when she stepped on his toes or turned the wrong way.

 _He has such smiling eyes!_ Brienne said to Jaime. _Don’t you think?_

Jaime scoffed. _Smiling eyes, and a caressing manner. Tall, and handsome – but has he any substance? The Tyrell boy has more steel._

Later, when Brienne caught the quick exchange of glances between Lord Renly and the Tyrell boy, Jaime only laughed. _Mayhap it’s Renly who has the Tyrell boy’s steel in *him*._

 _Shut up!_ Brienne hissed. Once Jaime pointed it out, though, it was impossible to ignore the fleeting glances and stolen touches.

But what was that, to the kindness in his eyes as he told her to ignore the boys who tried to make a mock of her?

“They’re not worth a moment of your time, Lady Brienne,” he said, and smiled at her, warm and laughing. In that instant, Brienne lost a part of her heart forever.

 _Oh, come,_ Jaime said. _That’s all it takes? A kind word, and a smile?_

She silenced him.

“Dance with me again,” Lord Renly said, mischievously. “We’ll show them all.”

“Don’t worry, my lord,” Brienne said, glowering at the snickering boys. “I pay my debts.” 

She did not see his quick, startled look.

**

In the morning, the sun rose as brightly as Brienne’s mood. Birds sang and carolled, and the wind off the sea was bracing. She donned her shirt and breeches and strode down to the practice yard, only to find Lord Renly’s squire, Loras Tyrell, there before her.

He had tumbling dark curls and soft dark eyes, and he was dressed in green velvet with the golden rose of House Tyrell on his breast. Like Renly – like Jaime – he looked the very embodiment of storybook chivalry. But the look in his eyes when he saw Brienne was far from gallant and welcoming.

It shouldn’t have surprised her. By now, Brienne had grown used to knights and young squires despising her. But still, her defences had been lowered by the previous night; she had not been prepared for ill-will, not on such a bright morning.

Fighting the urge to curl into herself, Brienne reached out to Jaime once more. He uncurled within her, lazy and malicious – _What’s this? May I speak now?_ – and his sardonic voice gave her the comfort she needed.

“Do you care to spar?” she asked.

“I don’t fight girls, or freaks,” he said, with a lordly toss of his head.

 _Ha! What an insolent tulip,_ Jaime said, chuckling. _He reminds me of someone._

Brienne lifted her chin. “Afraid that I’ll beat you?”

They glared at each other. “Very well,” Loras said viciously. “But don’t go crying to your father when I grind you into the dust.”

They sparred. After the first few passes, Loras eyed her suspiciously and began to treat her with more respect – after the first heated exchange, he threw aside all his affectations and began to spar with her in earnest.

He was good. He was very, very good – quick, and lithe, and swift-witted, as Jaime was. Brienne was smiling, feeling the uncomplicated joy of matching swords and wits with a skilled and fierce opponent, and she could feel Jaime’s delight echoing hers.

In the end, she needed all of her own skill – and last-minute assistance from Jaime – to bring the match to a panting, exhausted draw. 

Afterwards, Loras clasped hands with her and eyed her with grudging respect. “You’re good, Lady Brienne,” he said. “Graceless, but good.”

She heard clapping behind her. Lord Renly, resplendent in black and yellow silk, was lounging on the viewing stand and eating a peach. “Well done!” he called out, smiling. “Well done both of you.” He threw Loras a secret smile and took a bite from his peach.

And then he strode down and clasped Brienne on the shoulder. “if you ever wish to leave Tarth for the wider world, Lady Brienne,” he said, “come to me at Storm’s End.”

Brienne felt an overwhelming rush of triumph, elation and joy. “Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, my lord! Th-thank you, I will.”

**

Jaime said nothing.

“What’s wrong now?” she asked, striding – almost skipping – down the road towards the sea, to a private cove where she liked to go swimming after her morning practice bouts. Jaime liked it too. He said it reminded him of the beaches below Casterly Rock.

 _Nothing,_ Jaime said. _Just – be wary of giving your loyalty so freely._

“Who else should I give it to?” she asked, stripping off her boots and breeches, throwing her shirt over her head – she was not afraid of any witnesses, here; the cove was too sheltered, and no one ever came to this isolated spot. “All knights must serve someone, surely? If not the king, then an honourable lord.”

She slipped into the water and struck out with a powerful overarm stroke. Here in the ocean, she was no longer too-tall, too-large, too-ugly; she was weightless and graceful as she never was on land

As she rolled over on her back and lay floating on the surface, she felt Jaime enjoying the feel of sunlight on her face, the rare peace of solitude. _In my experience, neither kings nor lords are particularly honourable._

“Renly is.”

_Perhaps. Perhaps we’ll find out, one day._

“You’ll come with me, won’t you?” she asked.

She could not imagine her life without Jaime’s presence, curled within her mind and making sardonic comments. 

_Of course,_ he said. _We are bound together forever, you and I._

**


	21. 5 x beast!AUs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring: chained lions; would-be dragonslayers; men in beastly clothing; curses; and lion queens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For slipsthrufingers. Please enjoy!

**1\. Were!AU**

As the sun sinks below the horizon and the first stars come out, before the full moon rises, the Maid of Tarth fastens Jaime’s long chains to a tree and slips down to the Trident, stripping off her boots and wading barefoot in the water.

“Gods, they really do have mermaids on Tarth,” Jaime drawls. “But by the looks of you, they’re not the beautiful sirens of legend –”

Her back stiffens. “Shut up,” she hisses, turning around to glare at him with her blue eyes – deep as the sea, and just as fathomless.

His own eyes are cat-green, reflecting the light; this close to turning, he’s been told they become slit-pupilled. Cersei hates that he’s a were, calling him an animalistic throwback; it’s the only point of difference between them, save for his cock and her cunt.

Still. It runs in the Lannister blood, a gift of the First Men.

_All Lannisters are lions,_ his mother had said, cooing over him and stroking his fur. _You more than most, Jaime_.

When the moon rises, Jaime shifts, a suspended moment of agony-ecstasy that ends with him standing on four great paws, shaking his mane and letting out a low, rumbling growl.

He pads down to the river, his fore-paws still chained and shackled, and peers at the Maid of Tarth – now a sleek, powerful dolphin, cavorting in the water.

**

**2\. Dragon!AU**

“Oh, stop hiding behind your shield!” Brienne snorts, smoke trickling from her nostrils. “Do you think I haven’t heard that story?”

The young, beautiful knight emerges from behind his mirrored shield, dressed in fire-proofed leather armour and holding a golden sword. He wrenches off his helm and stares at her, his eyes wide. “You can talk!” he says.

“Of course I can talk. I’m not a dumb beast, you know.”

“But – you’re a dragon.” He stares at the wreckage of bones and twisted armour and shattered weapons that litter the ground outside her cave. “You’ve killed every knight sent against you.”

“They tried to kill me first,” she hisses. “They screamed and called me a brute and a monster.”

Slowly, deliberately, she uncoils herself and emerges from her cave: a huge beast with dull blue scales scarred from many battles, her wings leathery and powerful, her vast bulk monstrous rather than beautiful. 

But –

“Oh,” he breathes, dropping his sword to the ground and reaching out to touch her. “Oh, you’re –”

She rears back, beating her wings and snarling with all her long, sharp teeth. He flinches, but does not cower away from her.

“You are beautiful,” he said admiringly. “Not sleek or graceful, perhaps, but you’re so strong. So powerful. I’ve never seen anyone like you before.”

He puts his trembling hand on her brow, almost a caress.

Despite herself, she leans into his touch.

**

**3\. The beast within**

Strip away the veneer of civilization and chivalry, strip away all restraint and fear of consequence, allow men to revel in their worst instincts, and they become no more than beasts disguised as men, raping and murdering at will.

Brienne knows this all too well.

But when the monstrous Kingslayer is stripped of civilization and chivalry, all his restraint and fear of consequence burned away by captivity, maiming and fever, she sees not an infamous oathbreaking beast, but a man –

“Jaime,” he says. “My name is Jaime.”

**

**4\. Cursed**

“What do you mean, cursed?” Jaime asks.

Brienne looks miserable. “Every full moon, I turn into a woman.”

**

**5\. The Lion Queen**

When Brienne is a tiny cub, all the lesser beasts of the Pridelands come to Pride Rock to celebrate her birth. Her father, Selwyn, climbs to the top of the Rock and holds her up for all to see, and one by one they bow before her, paying homage to the next Queen.

**

“Look, Brienne,” her father tells her, one golden morning. “Everything the light touches is our kingdom. But you must never go where the shadow falls.”

Jaime talks her into disobeying her father’s edict. No one else can spur her into such reckless hot-headedness; all it takes is for him to smile at her in his cocky, challenging way, daring her.

“Come on!” he says. “My father says only the bravest lions ever go there.”

She can wrestle him down to the ground four times out of five. But somehow he always manages to make her feel foolish.

“Oh, very well.” she sighs, pretending to look disapproving. 

It’s always Jaime who gets them into trouble. But when they’re standing with their backs to the rock, encircled by hyenas, it’s Jaime who throws himself before her, bristling all over, and tries to roar –

Her father saves them in time. But she never forgets his courage.

**

After her father is killed in the stampede, Brienne runs, lost in her grief. She crosses the great desert in a haze of tears and spends the next few years in the wilderness, trying to forget that she was ever the heir to the ruler of the Pridelands.

She attains her full growth in the jungle, growing strong and broad-shouldered like her father.

When a young golden lion with a full mane stumbles into her paradise, she wrestles him down to the ground –

“Brienne?” he breathes, staring up at her with wide green eyes. “Is it really you?”

“Jaime!” she says, delighted.

**

It’s a sweet, sweet reunion.

But eventually reality intrudes on them.

“My father has taken the throne,” he says sadly. “He and his followers have stripped the Pridelands of all its natural resources. There’s no one to stop him – but you might.”

“I can’t go back,” she protests.

“You must,” he insists. “There’s no one else.”

**

She gathers all her courage and goes back.

She fights Tywin – and her own demons – and takes back the throne.

With the balance restored and the true Queen returned, the rains finally come. The grasses grow once more, and in time the herds return to the Pridelands.

**

In time, the world turns full circle and Brienne climbs to the top of the Rock, holding up her own cub for all to see. One by one the lesser beasts bow before the cub, paying homage to the next Queen.


	22. And one more thing... (modern Jurassic World AU; beast!Brienne)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blue was created in the labs at Isla Tarth. Jaime had been present at her hatching, nearly three years ago; he’d watched her come out of her shell, and his face had been the first she’d ever seen. 
> 
> From the moment her eyes opened, he’d had the oddest feeling that he recognised her - and that she recognised him in turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For slipsthrufingers again. One more 😁

1.

It’s the chirruping that wakes him. A light chirruping, and an odd trilling sound, and a low thrumming hum. He’s heard those calls before, he thinks. He should recognise them. 

Something nudges him. An inquisitive chirrup. 

He raises his hand to wave the disturbance away, only to remember -

Pain washes over him, and a wave of darkness sends him down, down into oblivion.

**

The odd trilling sound again, and the low thrumming.

Something nudges him, harder this time.

Awash in a sea of pain and fever, he forces his eyes open.

He sees -

Teeth. Claws. Scales.

“Blue?” he rasps out.

**

But that can’t be right.

**

2.

Blue was created in the labs at Isla Tarth. Jaime had been present at her hatching, nearly three years ago; he’d watched her come out of her shell, and his face had been the first she’d ever seen.

From the moment her eyes opened, he’d had the oddest feeling that he recognised her - and that she recognised him in turn.

But Qyburn, the head geneticist, had only laughed.

“They’re animals, Mr Lannister,” he’d said. “Intelligent, yes. But created in a lab, to our specifications. We’ve had to fill the gaps in their DNA -”

There were wild rumours and conspiracy theories surrounding those mysterious gaps. Some of the wilder protesters had spoken of grave-robbing, of ancient crypts plundered in the ruins of Evenfall Hall.

“In a way, you’re right, though,” Qyburn said, beaming proudly down at the newly hatched velociraptor. “This one is special.”

The hatchling’s eyes were blue. As blue as the sea, and just as fathomless.

**

Jaime came back to see Blue every now and then.

He watched her grow, watched as she learned to hunt and kill with the pack, as she displayed unusual cunning and intelligence - Qyburn’s gloating praise - and moved up in the ranks until she was the undisputed alpha.

What Qyburn did not see - because he was not looking for it, because Jaime took care never to draw attention to it - was the tiny crescent moon shaped mark on her flank.

Jaime had the same mark, in exactly the same spot.

**

3.

When he was a child, Jaime had dreamed of the past, of knights and kings and battles. He’d dreamed of a woman with eyes blue as the sea, and just as fathomless.

Now, though, he dreams in infra-red, his vision a blur of thermal red and yellow, his sense of hearing and smell unbelievably acute. He dreams of the hunt, the thrill of the chase, of the blood-drenched joy of the kill.

He wonders if Blue dreams of being clawless, toothless, her vision flat and her senses impossibly dull.

**

4.

Blue nudges him again. Chirrups at him.

“What are you doing here?” he asks her, squinting up into the burning sky.

His voice is hoarse. His lips are parched and cracked. He’s sunburnt, and dehydrated, and his hand is - his hand is -

A vague memory swirls up from the depths: disaster on Isla Tarth. Hundreds of casualties. Some of the dinosaurs had escaped to the mainland.

Jaime had been in solitary confinement, all sense of connection with the world lost.

Had he dreamed of salt water, and a vast new world?

Had she dreamed of grey cement walls and emptiness?

And now here she is in the Riverlands, thousands of miles from home. Standing over him - or what’s left of him, after the Mummers had left him for dead.

She nudges him insistently. Trills and thrums at him. _What are you doing?_ he imagines her saying.

“Dying,” he says, with a hoarse, croaking laugh.

_No, Jaime,_ her blue eyes say. _You must live._

Slowly, painfully, he struggles to his knees. She buts against him, urging him to put his arm around her shoulders, to lean his weight on her and stand up. Her bones are so light, he realises with a sense of shock. He’d thought she would be dense muscle.

Her skin is warm, her scales smooth and supple, and she smells of blood and damp earth. But with his eyes closed and the fever wreathing his brain, he can almost imagine her as the woman of his long-ago childhood dreams, strong and powerful, her calloused hands gentle.

Blue has no hands. She has claws instead, and a razor sharp, curving sickle-like claw on each foot. But she chirrups gently at him, thrumming and trilling encouragement, and slowly, patiently walks beside him, supporting his staggering weight.

In this fever-mad light, he thinks wildly, she _could_ almost be his soul-mate.

**

Leaning on her enduring strength, he walks beside her into the woods.


	23. The secrets of women (canon divergence; Mrs Doubtfire-esque)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Septa Roelle left Tarth when Brienne was nearly three and ten. 
> 
> Septa Jaina arrived a few weeks later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one asked for this, but I've written it anyway. It's my head canon that Jaime knows far more secret women's business than Septa Roelle, because of course he and Cersei shared *everything*.

Septa Roelle left Tarth – her departure unceremonious and unmourned – when Brienne was nearly three and ten.

Brienne was glad to see the back of her. She tried to talk her father out of sending for a replacement. “We don’t need another septa, Father,” she said. “I can read and write, and do my sums; I don’t need to learn anything else –”

Besides, she thought, another septa might persuade her father to put an end to her lessons with Ser Goodwin.

But Lord Selwyn was adamant. “You need proper female guidance, daughter,” he said with a heavy sigh. “Now more than ever. You’re at the age where things will start to change –” he coughed and trailed off, looking uncomfortable and embarrassed.

“Why should anything change, Father?” she asked.

**

Septa Jaina arrived a few weeks later.

Tall, vital, with short, curling brown hair barely concealed by her wimple and bright green eyes, her presence filled the room. Her smile – lopsided and ironic, rather than serene and calm – was like a flash of magnetic charm; she drew every eye, unthinking.

On her first night at Evenfall Hall, Lord Selwyn invited her to dine with the household.

“Is it true what they’re saying?” someone asked. “The queen has been arrested?”

There had been rumblings from the mainland for months. Mostly it was wild rumours about the queen – that she was openly feuding with the King’s Hand; that she was plotting against the king; that her children were no true Baratheons at all – but the latest shocking news was that the king had imprisoned her within a tower, and stripped her brother the Kingslayer of his white cloak for treason. They would have arrested him, too, if he had not escaped – the king’s soldiers were searching high and low for him.

Septa Jaina’s expressive mouth drew into a frown. Her fingers – long and unusually tanned, for a lady – tightened on her eating knife.

“Enough, old friend,” her father said gently. “Let us not talk politics at table.” He turned to Septa Jaina. “Will you tell us about your septry?” he asked. “You are from the Riverlands, I understand?” 

Septa Jaina relaxed, and the conversation turned in a more civil direction.

**

Brienne’s first day with Septa Jaina did not go as expected.

She had been caught out at her early morning lesson with Ser Goodwin, for one. She’d just mastered a piece of complicated footwork when she heard applause, and she and Ser Goodwin looked up to see Septa Jaina looking on from the sidelines.

“I –” Brienne swallowed. “I can explain.”

But Septa Jaina only smiled. “No,” she said. “I’ve never understood why only men can learn to fight. Surely women have greater need to defend themselves?” For a moment, she looked grave. “But make sure you are finished by the time our lessons start, won’t you?”

And she turned with a little swish of her skirts and left.

Later, after the household had broken their fast, Brienne made her way to the tiny solar where she had spent countless miserable house with Septa Roelle, wishing she were somewhere – anywhere – else. 

“Well, well,” Septa Jaina said, looking around with an expression of distaste. “This is a miserable little room, isn’t it?” She pulled off her wimple and impatiently shook out her short brown curls. “I don’t know how you can stand being cooped up in here.”

“We can go outside, if you like,” Brienne offered eagerly.

“Gods, yes,” Septa Jaina replied.

Brienne grabbed her cloak and led the way outside, Septa Jaina following. Unlike Septa Roelle, she made no comment on Brienne’s too-eager stride – _walk, don’t run, girl!_ – or made dire threats about the backboard if Brienne didn’t correct her posture, other than “Stand up straight, child! Don’t ever apologise for yourself.”

Brienne led her new septa through the bustling crowd in the bailey, threading past farmers and merchants and stray geese – through the gates – exchanging a quick laughing jest with the guards as they passed – and out onto the grassy hillside, where the expanse of Tarth spread before them: the road down to the harbour, and the blue, blue sea below.

They sat down on their cloaks on the hillside, Brienne folding her legs demurely as Septa Roelle had always taught her – but Septa Jaina _sprawled_ , with one knee drawn up beneath her skirts, leaning back on her palms. She turned her face to the sun and sighed.

“I don’t know how women stand it,” she said absently. “Trussed up in skirts and hemmed about with restrictions –”

Brienne stared at her. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Aren’t you supposed to teach me how to be a lady?”

That brought Septa Jaina’s attention back to her. “Oh yes,” she said. “Of course. What did your last septa teach you? Sewing and household management, I suppose. Courtesy and deportment.”

Brienne made a face. “Singing and dancing and etiquette as well. Only my fingers keep fumbling at the needle, and my voice sounds like a croaking frog, and I keep tripping over my feet.”

Septa Jaina laughed, her white teeth flashing, and Brienne stared at her in fascination. Her green eyes were filled with warm amusement, and Brienne blushed and looked away.

“Even the meanest peasant women in the fields can sew and dance,” Septa Jaina said. “There’s more to being a lady than that. My mother was a great lady. She was wise and gracious, and though she never raised her voice no one dared disobey her. My sister –” she trailed off, hesitating, but then continued. “My sister is proud and fierce. A true lioness, defiant and protective.”

Her mouth set, and her eyes blazed. Her right hand drew into a very unladylike fist, her knuckles white with tension. “I will never forgive them if she comes to harm.”

Brienne’s eyes widened. “Septa Roelle said we are meant to forgive our enemies.”

“Forgiveness?” Septa Jaina shook her head. “No, child. We don’t forgive our enemies. We pay them back.”

**

“And what do you think of our new arrival, Brienne?” her father asked, looking awkward. “I hope she is – kinder than Septa Roelle. And that her teachings are more in keeping with the spirit of the Faith.”

Brienne thought on Septa Jaina’s grim dismissal of the virtues of mercy and forgiveness. Of her disregard for convention and traditional feminine behaviour. She thought on her smile, warm and bright and laughing.

“Of course, Father,” she lied.

**

Long weeks of warm, summer days stretched on, endless and welcoming, though rumblings from the mainland were growing stronger.

Rumour said that Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock was preparing for war, that he meant to free his daughter and put his grandson on the throne.

But Brienne spent her days roaming the island with Septa Jaina, at her lessons. 

Septa Jaina hated being cooped up. Together, she and Brienne tramped through the grassy hillsides and meadows and hiked the narrow mountain trails of Tarth, walking briskly with free-swinging strides, their skirts swishing about their sturdy boots.

Septa Jaina’s methods of teaching – and the subject matter – were unconventional, to say the least.

She taught Brienne mathematics, not with dry, dusty equations as Septa Roelle had done, but with practical problems. She spoke of siege engines, and the angles of their arcing range; she spoke of how to measure the height of a besieged castle’s wall, and how to calculate the flight of an arrow.

She drilled Brienne on heraldry, making sure she could recite the names and sigils of all the great and lesser houses of Westeros. “When you’re in battle,” she said, “there’s no time to think about which house a man belongs to. You must know these things straight away.”

Instead of droning on about household management and economy, Septa Jaina took Brienne down to the harbour and showed her money changing hands at the market, and then went down to the docks where the trading ships came in from distant lands. She spoke of trade and import and export, of the Iron Bank, of lines of credit and the rate of exchange between various currencies. “My father says that past a certain point, money is an abstract. I’m afraid I don’t understand it as much as I should,” she said with a laugh. “But he made sure I know the basics.”

One day, as they were walking on the docks, a thin, wiry man slunk out of an alley and brandished a knife at them, leering. Though Brienne was the one who was learning to fight with a sword, she froze, uncertain how to react.

It was Septa Jaina who kneed him between the legs and laid him out flat with one blow. When he groaned and swore at Septa Jaina and called her a word so foul it made Brienne’s eyes go very wide, she hauled him up by his collar and punched him again and again, until he went limp in her grasp.

“Never hesitate,” Septa Jaina said to Brienne as they walked away, leaving the man in a broken heap behind them. “And when you strike, make it as final and brutal as possible. You must be ruthless, child,” she said. “The world is a very dangerous place, especially for women.”

She never spoke of religion.

“I don’t believe in the gods,” she said frankly. “I’ve never seen any evidence of them. I prefer to put my faith in stone walls and cold, hard steel.”

“Shouldn’t you at least be telling me tales from the book?” Brienne asked. By now, she had become so accustomed to Septa Jaina’s unique eccentricities that such a curious comment never bothered her. 

It was a bright day, and they were hiking up the trail to a mountain lake. In the sunshine, Septa Jaina’s brown curls shone with what looked like golden highlights.

“The book?” Septa Jaina asked, her brows raised. “How did you – ” she smiled in delight. “Of course,” she said. “The book contains many useful lessons. I’ve always found it holds great wisdom.”

And she launched into a tale that Brienne had never heard before, in all the years of Septa Roelle reciting from the Seven-Pointed Star. It was a tale of a knight named Ser Criston Cole, who was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard in the time of the Dance of Dragons.

Unlike Septa Roelle’s tales, it contained no pointed lessons in humility and acceptance of one’s fate. It was a full-blooded tale of greed and ambition, of forbidden lust and murderous politics, of a white-cloaked Kingsguard who swore his loyalty to Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen yet chose to support her rival to the throne.

“No one knows why,” Septa Jaina said. “Some say he sought to wed the princess, but she spurned him bitterly. Some say he thought Prince Aegon the most fitting candidate. But after King Viserys’ death, he slit the throat of the only member of the Small Council to support crowning Rhaenyra instead of Aegon. He became known as the Kingmaker. It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“I thought the Kingsguard were supposed to protect the king?” Brienne asked.

Septa Jaina only threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, child,” she said, “if only the world were that simple. What if,” she asked, “the king is mad? If he likes to burn his enemies alive? What if he seeks to turn an entire city into his funeral pyre? What should a Kingsguard do then?”

Brienne stared, wide-eyed. “What happened?” she breathed, enthralled.

But Septa Jaina only shook her head, and refused to answer.

**

The weeks went by and Septa Jaina didn’t teach Brienne any particularly feminine things. “You can hire seamstresses to sew for you,” she said dismissively, “and minstrels to sing for you.”

“What about grace and deportment?” Brienne asked doubtfully.

Septa Jaina shrugged. “Your manners are pretty enough. Your previous septa managed that much, at least.” She made a face. “Grace comes of self-confidence and assurance. And now that you’ve stopped hunching in on yourself –” she looked Brienne up and down. “You will be magnificent one day.”

Brienne liked the thought of being magnificent in Septa Jaina’s eyes. But –

“What about beauty?” she asked. “Shouldn’t you teach me how to be beautiful?” It was a painful question, exposing her vulnerable underbelly – but Brienne trusted Septa Jaina to be kinder than Septa Roelle, and not to force her to confront her faults in the cruellest possible way.

Septa Jaina only sighed. “You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen,” she said. “Let that be enough.”

But on the eve of Brienne’s thirteenth birthday, she woke with a painful, cramping belly and found the sheets, her thighs and her white shift stained with blood.

She stared down at herself, aghast, and ran to Septa Jaina.

For once, Septa Jaina looked blank. “Gods,” she said. “I never thought of that.”

But she shook herself, handed Brienne a damp cloth from her basin and told her to clean herself up. She turned away to the window while Brienne lifted up her shift and washed her thighs.

“It’s only natural,” she said. When I was a – when my sister first flowered, our septa said that it happens to women every month.”

“Every month!” Brienne asked, dismayed.

Septa Jaina nodded. “Soon your body will start changing. Your hips will widen, and you’ll grow teats –” she trailed off. “In a few years, you’ll be old enough to bear children.”

“Do men go through the same changes?” Brienne asked, fascinated despite herself.

Septa Jaina laughed softly. “Of course. Around the same age, their voices start growing deeper, and they start growing hair in strange places – my sister and I used to –”

The other woman shook herself. “Are you decent, yet?” she asked.

Brienne hastily finished cleaning herself up and cleared her throat. “Yes,” she said, her voice unsure. “What – what do I do now?”

Septa Jaina told her to wait in her chambers and went out. Brienne lay down on Septa Jaina’s bed, resting her head on her pillow, and closed her eyes, breathing in the warm, comforting scent of her, and dozed off.

Half an hour later Septa Jaina returned, bearing a jug of wine, a twist of herbs and a number of strips of cloth draped over her arm.

“Here, child,” she said, pouring a goblet of wine and sprinkling in a pinch of herbs. “Drink this. It will help with the pain.” She folded the cloth up and showed Brienne how to place it between her legs to absorb the blood flow.

And then she filled her warming pan with coals from the fire and placed it between her sheets. By then, the drugged wine had done its work; Brienne was feeling muzzy and content, and Septa Jaina coaxed her to lie down beneath the warm sheets, pulling the covers over her and smoothing her hair.

“Sleep,” she said quietly. “Sleep, and dream of swords and heroism. You’ll be a woman soon enough.”

**

After that, something changed between Brienne and Septa Jaina. The older woman became more distant, putting an invisible barrier between them.

“Did I do something wrong?” Brienne asked her.

“No, child,” Septa Jaina said. She shook her head. “If anything, it’s my fault. I should never have come here, not like this. It wasn’t – honourable.”

She began to spend more of her time staring across the water, towards the mainland. And as the news came that Lord Tywin had called his banners and was marching on King’s Landing, she seemed to come to some sort of decision.

“I must go,” she said to Brienne, as they returned to the castle with the sun setting behind them, throwing their shadows racing before them. “I must return to my sister.”

Brienne bit her lip. “But –” she said, “what about our lessons?” she asked.

Septa Jaina laughed. “I’ve nothing more to teach you,” she said. “You already knew how to read and write and do your sums. Your Ser Goodwin is a good teacher. You only need to learn that not all the world is a song.”

“Is that why you told me all those tales?” Brienne asked. “All those Kingsguard knights, and the dilemmas they faced. What happened to the one who had to guard the mad king? You never did tell me.”

Even as she spoke, she put the words together: the Mad King. Septa Jaina had been speaking of Jaime Lannister the Kingslayer, the queen’s twin brother stripped of his white cloak for treason. The king’s soldiers had been searching for him high and low for months.

“Perhaps one day you’ll find out,” Septa Jaina said, with her lopsided, ironic smile.

**

The next day she was gone.

“Sailed on the first tide, hours before dawn,” a sailor told Brienne at the docks. “Bound for King’s Landing, she said, come hell or high water.”

**

After Septa Jaina’s departure, Brienne told her father she was done with septas.

She put aside her skirts and donned tunic and breeches, and she began to train openly with Ser Goodwin, defying anyone who dared to criticise her.

On the mainland, the Seven Kingdoms exploded into war. The Kingslayer was leading his father’s armies, it was said, winning victory after victory.

When Ser Humphrey Wagstaffe sought to put her in her place, she took her sword to him and broke his ancient bones.

 _“Never hesitate,”_ Septa Jaina had said. _“And when you strike, make it as final and brutal as possible. You must be ruthless, child. The world is a very dangerous place, especially for women.”_

When Renly Baratheon called his banners, Brienne answered.

Perhaps on the mainland, she would find Septa Jaina again – or come face to face with the Kingslayer.

Perhaps then he would finally tell her what had happened with the Mad King. 


	24. It’s not a crime (modern AU; crack)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can’t this Saturday,” Brienne said. “Gerion’s taking me out on his yacht.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little bit of fun.

“I can’t this Saturday,” Brienne said. “Gerion’s taking me out on his yacht.”

“Gerion?” Jaime stared at her, aghast. “My uncle Gerion? But he’s -”

“He’s what?” Brienne demanded.

“He’s old! He must be fourteen years older than us. He’s got greying hair. And a beard!”

“I know,” Brienne said with a secret smile, remembering the feel of that beard on her skin.

Jaime’s eyes widened even further. “Brienne. Please. Tell me you didn’t.”

“I did.” She lifted her chin. “What of it? He’s a very good-looking, charismatic man with a great deal of experience. He’s travelled all over the world, and what’s more, he appreciates me!”

“ _I_ appreciate you,” he cried, throwing up his hands.

“Jaime,” she said. “We’ve known each other forever. It’s not the same thing.”

He glowered at her, his narrowed eyes gleaming with sullen malice. “Was Cersei appreciating you properly when I caught you making out in the janitor’s closet? She certainly looked like she appreciated your muscles.”

“Jaime,” she said, her voice low with warning.

“Or what about Daven? I know you had a thing with him as well.”

“Yes,” she snapped, “I’ve slept with Cersei and Daven, and I once had a drunken fling with both Myrielle and Cerenna, and now I’ve slept with your uncle too. So I like golden hair and green eyes.It’s not a crime, is it? There’s no law against me sleeping with whichever Lannister I choose.”

“Because - because -” he tore at his hair. “You’re _my_ friend. They didn’t go through Basic with you. They haven’t fought and bled beside you. They don’t - they don’t _know_ you like I do. How could they possibly appreciate you?”

She blinked at him. “You sound quite jealous,” she said.

“I do, don’t I?”

And he squared his shoulders, stepped forward and kissed her.


	25. It’s not a crime redux (the sauce for the gander remix)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I didn’t know you had Galladon’s number,” Brienne said. “I know you went on that op with him last year -”
> 
> She stopped. Straightened up. Stared. “Jaime. No. You didn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn’t resist! Please enjoy another little piece of fun.
> 
> To clarify: this is a remix of the previous chapter, not a continuation.

“Galladon called,” Brienne said. “He asked how you were.”

Jaime’s brows flicked up. “That was good of him.”

“And he said you should call him. Apparently he’s got a week’s furlough coming up soon.” Absently she bent over and stretched her legs, trying to ease the lingering ache of her morning run. “I didn’t know you had Gal’s number. I know you went on that op with him last year -”

She stopped. Straightened up. Stared. “Jaime. No. You didn’t.”

He blinked at her, his green eyes a little glazed. And then he grinned.

“You slept with my brother?” she exclaimed.

“You slept with _my_ sister.”

“But - but -” she trailed off. Of course Jaime could sleep with whomever he desired. And so could Galladon. There was no law against it.

But _Jaime_? Jaime was - 

Jaime was _her_ friend. She’d known him forever. The thought of him sleeping with _Galladon_ was. Well. Strangely upsetting.

“I didn’t think he’d be your type,” she said.

Jaime laughed. “He’s kind, and gentle, and built like a brick shithouse,” he said frankly. “Just like you. What’s not to like?”

In the earliest days of their acquaintance, Jaime had once compared _her_ to a brick shithouse. She had taken offence and broken his nose, and he had apologised, and they’d gone on to become best friends and companions in arms and - whatever else they were. 

But what if he’d been -

Because he was so beautiful himself, she’d assumed that his tastes ran to the beauties of both sexes that clustered around him like moths to a flame.

But -

“Besides,” Jaime added, “his eyes are almost as blue as yours.”

He looked pointedly at her.

 _Oh_ , she thought, wonderingly. _Oh_.

Gathering up all her courage, she stepped forward and kissed him.


	26. The Ransom (canon-divergence)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “A raven from Tarth has arrived,” the Kingslayer tells her. “Your father has offered 300 gold dragons for your ransom.” 
> 
> “Well?” she asks, barely concealing her anticipation. In a few days, she could be free. 
> 
> His quicksilver smile flashes. “300 gold dragons seems a paltry sum. Perhaps I will keep you with me until your father offers a worthier amount.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick sketch of a scenario. 
> 
> Now that I've established the setting and got this rather light-hearted version out of my system, I can condense it even further and turn it into the PWP it was always meant to be.

The Lannister forces, battle-hardened veterans fresh from crushing the Northern rebels in the Riverlands, roll over the untried Stormlords and the knights of the Reach like a great wave. 

The Rainbow Knights fight desperately to protect King Renly, but it’s not enough. The Kingslayer is a demon with a sword, untouchable, cutting through their ranks with terrifying skill. 

“The day is lost, sire!” Loras cries. “You must not let them take you.”

“Take the king and go,” Brienne tells him. “I will hold them off.” 

Renly spares a moment to clasp Brienne’s gauntleted forearm. “Thank you, Lady Brienne,” he says, his blue eyes solemn and grave. “I will never forget this.” 

He whirls his horse and calls the retreat, Loras beside him. Brienne spares a moment to look after him, remembering his warm smile as he raised her to the Rainbow Guard, his kindness to her at the long-ago feast. 

And then she turns back to the Kingslayer. Her horse shifts beneath her. She hefts her shield in one hand and grasps her sword firmly in the other, and she draws in a long, deep breath. 

She is Brienne the Blue of the Rainbow Guard, protecting her king’s retreat. 

She will not fail him. 

** 

But the Kingslayer is too fast. Too skilled. 

She buys as much time as she can, determined to sell her life dearly. She blocks and defends and refuses to yield, grunting with every desperate stroke. 

Driven to desperation she throws herself from the saddle and crashes into him, knocking him to the ground, hoping to physically overpower him – to no avail. 

“Do you yield?” the Kingslayer demands, kneeling on her chest and driving the breath from her lungs, his sword poised to drive home through the eyeslit in her helm. 

Brienne only hopes that she had bought Loras and King Renly enough time to escape. 

“I yield, ser,” she says. 

**

When she tears off her helm, he stares down at her, bemused. 

“You’re a woman,” he says, almost accusing her. 

** 

Her horse and armour are forfeit, and a ransom message will be sent to her father as soon as things are more settled. 

“In the meantime,” the Kingslayer says, gesturing to his luxurious crimson-walled tent, “You might prefer to be housed here, rather than with the other prisoners.” He pauses, watching her with his mouth oddly twisted. “They asked me if I meant to claim the pot.”

She closes her eyes, draws in a long breath. She had beaten her would-be suitors into the ground at Bitterbridge; it should have been enough. Why did it still have the power to hurt her?

“And do you?” she asks. “It was a sizeable sum, I heard.”

He scoffs. “I am a lion of the Rock,” he says, as if it explains everything. 

Perhaps to him it does.

**

She gives him her word that she won’t try to escape. 

As the army moves on to Storm’s End, seeking to occupy King Renly’s fortress and leave him nowhere to run, Brienne rides side by side with the Kingslayer during the day and sleeps in his tent at night. 

It’s a strange sort of intimacy. He sends her off with his squires whenever he meets with his bannermen, but other than that she spends almost all of her time by his side. They eat their meals together, drinking rich Arbor red, and the Kingslayer needles and pricks her with his ironic conversation, talking circles around her while she struggles to keep up; he has an unerring instinct for uncovering her weak points, and soon she finds herself telling him about the bet. 

His mouth tightens, and his fine hand clenches on his table knife. 

“Bushy and Mullendore are among the prisoners here,” he says. “Shall I chastise them for you?” 

Despite herself, she laughs. The Kingslayer, champion of the Maid of Tarth’s honour. “There’s no need, ser,” she says. “I paid them back in their own coin.”

He raises his brows, a wicked light of humour dancing in his eyes, so she goes on. “I broke their bones and shattered their pride,” she says, her mouth curling in a smile of pure triumph. “How they raged and gnashed their teeth!”

He raises his goblet in salute. “To paying debts,” he says, smiling. 

** 

They reach Storm’s End seven days after the battle. Seven days of riding beside him, eating with him, sleeping within reach of him, and learning to let the mocking thread of his conversation wash over her. 

She has almost – almost – grown accustomed to his presence. The Kingslayer. The Lion of Casterly Rock. The Queen’s brother, and one of the greatest knights in Westeros. 

The Kingsguard who had murdered his king. 

“A raven from Tarth has arrived,” the Kingslayer tells her. “Your father has offered 300 gold dragons for your ransom.” 

“Well?” she asks, barely concealing her anticipation. In a few days, she could be free. 

He looks over at her, a gleam of ironic laughter in his eyes. “I have heard men call Tarth the Sapphire Isle.” 

Her shoulders go back. She glares at him. “You know very well there are no sapphire mines on Tarth. It is named for the colour of the surrounding waters.” 

His quicksilver smile flashes. “Still,” he says mock-thoughtfully. “300 gold dragons seems a paltry sum. Perhaps I will keep you with me until your father offers a worthier amount.” 

“We are a poor house!” She clambers to her feet. “We can’t possibly –” She stops. “What do you consider a worthier sum?” 

He pretends to consider this. “Were our situations reversed,” he says, tapping his chin, “you could demand ten thousand gold dragons of Casterly Rock.” 

“Ten thousand!” she repeats, incredulous. 

“Yes,” he nods. He waves over one of his squires. “Write back to Lord Selwyn. Tell him that Ser Jaime Lannister demands no less than ten thousand gold dragons for his daughter’s ransom.” 

The squire gapes, but bows and scurries away to follow orders. 

“My father will never be able to raise so much gold,” she says, slumping back into her chair. “Not in a thousand years.” 

He smiles at her, slow and amused and indulgent. “Well then,” he says. “You’ll be my prisoner for a very long time, won’t you, Lady Brienne?”


	27. A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms (5 things; Canon-divergence; modern AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five ways in which Jaime might have knighted Brienne.

1\. 

In the last golden days of King Robert’s reign, news came to Tarth of a great tourney. The Hand of the King, Lord Eddard Stark, had promised ten thousand gold dragons to the victor of the melee; King Robert had sworn to knight the victor with his own hands. 

And so Brienne journeyed to King’s Landing and entered the melee as a mystery challenger. Over the course of three long, painful days she bashed and battered her way through the throng of knights and squires, until by the afternoon of the third day she finally overcame her last opponent, raising her shield and morningstar in salute to the cheers of the crowd. 

Neither the King nor his Hand were there to witness her victory. The only notables in the royal box were the Queen’s brothers – Ser Jaime Lannister the Kingslayer, and Tyrion Lannister the Imp. 

Still. The crowd cheered and roared. When she took off her helm and faced the royal box, it was to see the Kingslayer applauding her, his smile ironic and sharp as a knife. 

“Approach, mystery knight,” he drawled. “You have earned your reward.” 

When she drew closer, his brows went up. “Or should I say, mystery lady. Still. Woman or no, you are the victor, and the King has given his word.” 

His tone was insolent and mocking, and she stiffened in affront. “How shall I claim my reward?” she asked. “The King has sworn to knight the victor, and yet he is not here.” 

The Kingslayer leaned back in his chair, his eyes glinting with amusement. “It appears not. Luckily for you, any knight can make a knight. Even one such as myself.” 

“I do not want knighthood from your hands, ser,” she retorted.

“You’re not like to get it from any other’s.” He said it with such blunt callousness that Brienne drew in her breath. 

“The King has sworn –”

“The King has sworn many things. And yet, as you pointed out, he is not here – he is watching the jousting, with a warm wench and a flagon of wine. So tell me, do you want to be a knight or not?” 

“Besides,” he continued before she could reply. “You will have thousands of witnesses to your knighting. You are the victor of the Tourney of the Hand, and with the King’s solemn vow no one may dispute your claim.”

And so with thousands of small folk looking on, Brienne knelt before the Kingslayer – and woman or no, arose a knight. 

** 

2.

The sound of childish arguments and outraged shrieking made Joanna smile. 

“Look, darling,” she said, massaging her stomach. The baby was restless today. “Jaime has made a friend.” 

Her husband, normally so severe, had unbent enough to take his family to the beach for a day; if he still had his laptop and phone with him, at least he made a token effort towards enjoying the outing. 

Cersei was whispering and giggling with her friend Melara. But Jaime had found a big, tow-headed child from a family of tourists and was wrestling with her, shouting and fighting with sticks. 

When the girl knelt before Jaime and he tapped her on the shoulder with his stick, Joanna cooed indulgently. 

** 

3\. 

In the last firelit moments before the end of the world, Brienne knelt before Jaime, her eyes overflowing with emotion, and arose a knight. 

**

4.

Three tours in the military. 

Two years at the elite White Tower Academy. 

A long, gruelling series of courses and physical and psychological examinations. 

And finally, finally, it came to this: 

She knelt before King Jaime of House Lannister, the First of His Name, and bowed her head as he settled a white cloak around her shoulders. 

In a clear, strong voice, she swore the oaths of the Kingsguard. 

(Not the centuries old oaths of absolute obedience. King Jaime had changed the vows after his ascension to the throne; now the Kingsguard swore loyalty to the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms, not the king himself. 

She knew the story behind that. Everyone knew the story.) 

When she rose to her feet, he shook her hand, his mouth curling in a smile. He pinned a medal to her chest in the shape of a crown and seven-pointed star. 

“Welcome to the Kingsguard, Brienne Tarth,” he said. 

In that moment, she would have done anything for him. 

(Later, when their relationship became something more than monarch and bodyguard, she asked him – “The Kingsguard were knights, once. I read somewhere – you were knighted, weren’t you?” 

His mouth flattened. He did not like thinking of his own brief period in the Kingsguard, of what he had witnessed, standing guard before the Mad King. 

“It’s rather fallen out of fashion,” he said lightly. “There’s not much scope for going around doing knightly deeds these days. But Arthur Dayne was – he had queer notions of honour and loyalty. He really believed in the old tales.” 

She’d seen his entry in the digitised White Book. On his passport, instead of Mr or Dr, his name was Ser Jaime Lannister. 

“Would you like me to knight you?” he asked.)

** 

5.

“What will it take to bribe you, wench?” the Kingslayer asked. “Gold? No, you’re the boringly honourable type, I see. Tell me what you would think a great reward.” 

“I am loyal to Lady Catelyn,” she ground out. 

“But Tarth is sworn to Storm’s End, is it not? Surely you would have been one of Renly’s brave men – oh,” he said, smiling cruelly. “I see. Renly is dead, and you won’t serve Stannis – so you’ve sworn yourself to the enemy of your enemy. Why not swear yourself to Casterly Rock? The pay is much higher.” 

She glowered at him. “You have nothing that I want. Will you give me respect? Will you give me acceptance? Will you –” she cut herself off. 

But it was too late. “Oho! Can it be that the Maid of Tarth dreams not of love but of glory? That she secretly longs to call herself not a wife but a knight?” He threw back his head and laughed. 

She turned her face away, felt herself going a horrible blotchy red. 

“Well, perhaps I will,” he said, after he finally stopped laughing. 

“Do not mock me!” she hissed, rounding on him. 

“Oh, but I’m not. Any knight can make another knight, they say. Well, I’ve never knighted anyone before, but I think I remember how it’s done –”

“I don’t want it from your hands,” she snarled. But her voice was shaking. 

“I was like you, once,” he said. “Dreaming of glory and adulation. I can’t say that my knighthood’s ever done me any good – but for what it’s worth, I can bestow it on you. Perhaps you might even do some good with it. ” 

She almost – almost – believed him. 

** 

+1

At the end of a long life filled with honour and loyal service, Brienne woke from a dream of old age to find the world – and herself – young again. 

The colours were brighter and more vivid, her senses keener; the sun on her face and the wind in her hair felt like freedom. 

She was in a forest, in the aftermath of a battle. Men moaned and cried as they lay bleeding and dying, and as she picked her way through the tangled undergrowth she noted the sigils on the banners: Crakehall and other lesser houses, the pure white of the Kingsguard, and beside it a black and red sigil she had not seen for decades. 

Her hair stood on end, her skin prickling, and she shivered. _I have seen this before,_ she realised, _or imagined it._ Jaime had spoken of it many times. 

She was wearing armour, carrying a sword and shield. Her old aches and scars had vanished; she felt young and strong again. 

“Blue knight!” a voice said – so achingly familiar, even now, long years after his death. “I saw you on the field, earlier – you fought like a demon!” 

She turned to see a young, golden haired boy in a crimson tunic, no more than five and ten, his eyes impossibly bright and eager. 

“And so did you,” she said. “I saw you charge the Smiling Knight.” 

The boy grinned, unshadowed, not an ounce of bitterness in him. “You saw that? Ser Arthur called me a reckless fool, but he was smiling as he did so.” He looked around, clearly searching for a figure in a white cloak. “He told me he wished to speak with me after the battle –”

“Perhaps he means to knight you,” Brienne said. 

His eyes shone. “Oh, that would be –” He stopped. “I don’t – What if I do something wrong?” 

She couldn’t resist. “I’ll show you,” she said. She drew him into the trees, a little way away from the main group. “You kneel before me,” she said, as he sank to his knees, “and I draw my sword –” With a fine, ringing shick she drew Oathkeeper, and Jaime’s eyes widened at the magnificent Valyrian steel sword. “And I tap you on the shoulder, like so, and charge you in the name of the gods –”

He looked up at her, his eyes so wide and bright and full of emotion that she faltered. Just so must she have looked up at him, on that long-ago – and impossibly far away – night in Winterfell. 

“Arise, Ser Jaime Lannister,” she said. “Knight of the Seven Kingdoms.”


	28. Matchmakers!Selwyn and Tywin, almost a Brady Bunch AU (modern AU; crack)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To keep Evenfall Hall, one of them has to marry a Lannister. 
> 
> Selwyn takes one for the team.
> 
> (Or; Selwyn and Tywin, matchmakers)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unrepentant, impulse-written crack.

“You’re _what?_ ” Brienne asked. “You – you can’t!”

“It’s all for show, of course,” her father said. “Purely a marriage of convenience, I assure you.”

“You’re marrying Tywin Lannister,” she repeated, groping behind her for a chair and sinking into it, dazed.

“Yes, well, if we’re to keep Evenfall Hall, one of us must marry a Lannister. And since you won’t have Jaime, and Galladon swears nothing will induce him to marry Cersei –”

She winced. The thought of her disastrous almost-marriage to Jaime was a sore point even now, a year after she left him at the altar. 

“Surely there must be someone – anyone – else. What about Aunt Genna?”

“Sweetling,” her father said, perfectly seriously, “I’m an old man, now, and I don’t have the stamina to keep up with Genna Lannister-Frey-Tully-Tyrell. No. Tywin is far steadier – what’s more, he’s content to stay at Casterly Rock and leave us in peace here on Tarth.”

“But – but –” her voice trembled. “But that means Cersei and Tyrion will be – _Jaime_ will be my _step-brother._ ”

“There’s no need for it to be awkward.” Her father smiled and gently patted her hand. “They’re coming to Tarth for the week-long wedding festivities, of course, but after that – you’ll only have to see them once a year at Sevenmas.” 

“Oh,” she said in a hollow voice. “Oh, of course.” 

** 

[“How did she take it?” Tywin Lannister asked over FaceTime, much later. 

“She’s horrified,” Selwyn said gleefully. “It’s perfect. Just the kind of push we needed. Now if we can throw them together as much as possible before we actually have to go through with the wedding –”

Tywin sighed and took off his glasses. “Perhaps Jaime will finally start taking up his responsibilities.”

“And perhaps Brienne will finally stop staring out to sea.”

The two old men shared a slow, conspiratorial smile.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why does one of them have to marry a Lannister to keep Evenfall Hall? Simply because. For reasons :-)


	29. The Ransom (PWP version, take 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My father will never be able to raise such a sum, not in a hundred years – well, you must give me a chance to pay you back, Kingslayer,” she said, too-sweetly. “In kind, if need be.” Immediately after speaking the words, she was appalled at herself – but by then it was too late. 
> 
> The idea had been given life. 
> 
> ** 
> 
> In which Jaime and Brienne play a dangerous game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a fun PWP romp based on "The Ransom" (see chapter 26). It turned into something quite different. 
> 
> Just to be clear, the fun PWP romp version is still coming. I needed to get this out of my system first.

Afterwards, she would have curled into a ball, quivering and defensive, over-sensitive and vulnerable like a snail ripped from its shell –

“What’s this?” he asked, his lips brushing her ear, his voice rumbling in her bones. “Why so shy, Lady Brienne?”

She hadn’t known what she was doing. She hadn’t known it would strip her of all her defences. She’d seen men lying with whores in Renly’s war-camp, and it had looked absurd and strangely impersonal, no more than grunting and groaning –

What the Kingslayer had done to her – what they had done together – was anything but impersonal.

“Are you going to claim the pot now?” she asked, her voice sullen. “Last I heard, it was worth near a hundred gold dragons.”

He clicked his tongue. “A hundred gold dragons for a lady’s maidenhead. Paltry.”

“And what price would you put on it, ser?” she snapped back, annoyed by his flippancy. “You set my ransom at ten thousand gold dragons, if you recall. How much is my maidenhead worth?”

Behind her, his body stiffened, his arm around her waist tightening. Still, his voice was light and ironic – returning cruelty for cruelty, as he always did. “Do you wish to play that game, Lady Brienne?”

She didn’t. Not really. But she felt too-exposed, too-vulnerable, and so she lashed out, desperate to protect herself.

“My father will never be able to raise such a sum, not in a hundred years – well, you must give me a chance to pay you back, Kingslayer,” she said, too-sweetly. “In kind, if need be.” Immediately after speaking the words, she was appalled at herself – but by then it was too late.

The idea had been given life.

“Oh?” he drawled, picking up her thrown gauntlet. “Say that the price of your virgin cunt was one thousand dragons –”

Despite herself, she flinched.

“– there, you have paid one tenth already,” he continued on, his irony cutting and vicious. “Say that a kiss is worth ten dragons, and each time we fuck is worth fifty –”

“One hundred,” she protested. “I am not a back-alley whore –”

“No whore I know, no matter how beautiful, is worth one hundred gold dragons a fuck,” he said crudely.

She hissed angrily, twisted in his embrace and sat up, her arms crossed over her torso. “Your sister was worth all the gold in Casterly Rock!” He got to his feet, his eyes blazing green, but she continued. “I will not be insulted by the likes of you, Kingslayer –”

“Then do not insult yourself,” he snarled. “You started this game, did you not? Very well then. One hundred gold dragons a fuck. You will have earned your freedom in ninety couplings –”

She raised her fist to strike him. Quick as a snake, he grasped her wrist and would have borne her down to the bed, coming over her to kiss her – would have overpowered a delicate, beautiful maiden like the ones Brienne had envied her entire life.

But Brienne was strong, broad-shouldered and powerful, and she had already broken a man’s bones for trying to put her in her place.

She braced herself, twisted, and threw him off her, sending him tumbling to the floor of the tent.

“Enough,” she said angrily. “I am not a whore. I lay with you freely, because I desired it –” and how it burned to admit that, but she was furious enough to hurl the truth in his teeth, “and for no other reason.” She glowered sullenly down at him, too proud to think of covering herself.

He stared at her for a long time, until the fire in his gaze died and his expression softened. “There,” he said, in a much gentler voice. “That wasn’t so difficult to admit, was it?”

**

The next time they lay together, there was no talk of money.


	30. Temeraire AU (Take 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What’s this?” Jaime rumbles, turning his great head to regard her through lazy, slit-pupilled green eyes. Thin curls of smoke trickle from his nostrils. “I thought you had been promised the Red Griffin egg.” 
> 
> Brienne’s breath hitches. “The hatchling rejected me,” she says. “This is the second time now –” 
> 
> Jaime snorts. “The Nightsong hatchling never made it out of the egg.” Still, he lifts one of his great wings in invitation. Sighing deeply, she strokes her fingers over his crimson and gold scales. He’s warm and solid, and she curls up against his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just felt like I needed a Temeraire AU.
> 
> This is my quick, dabbling attempt at the concept - it's very possible I might revisit later on, possibly from a different angle. In the meantime, please enjoy!
> 
> (I should mention it's been some time since I last read Temeraire. Please excuse any mistakes.)

1.

In the last fading remnants of twilight, as the sky darkens and the stars grow diamond-bright, Brienne runs towards Jaime’s covert. Tears blind her eyes, and her oil lantern wobbles with every stumbling step, the light flickering erratically. 

“What’s this?” Jaime rumbles, turning his great head to regard her through lazy, slit-pupilled green eyes. Thin curls of smoke trickle from his nostrils. “I thought you had been promised the Red Griffin egg.”

Brienne’s breath hitches. “The hatchling rejected me,” she says. “This is the second time now –”

Jaime snorts. “The Nightsong hatchling never made it out of the egg.” Still, he lifts one of his great wings in invitation. Sighing deeply, she strokes her fingers over his crimson and gold scales. He’s warm and solid, and she curls up against his side, places the lantern on the ground so that it sheds a tiny, intimate pool of golden light.

“Listen, little hatchling,” Jaime says. “You’re worth more than some cunt of a Red Griffin. One day, you might even aspire to a dragon like me.”

Reluctantly, Brienne smiles. Pandering to his vanity, she strokes his sleek, glorious hide, murmuring admiration of his magnificent beauty. He arches his neck and preens, showing off his prized golden breastplate, worked with a snarling lion’s head. His captain, Arthur Dayne, had presented him with the armour after the victory against the Kingswood Brotherhood. “There’s no other dragon like you, Jaime. Only you.” 

Jaime rumbles with pride, lays his head down and curls around her. Together, they watch the stars wheel in the sky, until eventually Brienne’s breathing deepens and she succumbs to exhaustion, cradled against the warmth of Jaime’s body.

**

Long years later, after Brienne refused old Wagstaffe – her third and last chance to become a captain – Arthur Dayne requests her as his first lieutenant.

“Jaime asked for you,” he says. “He said you shouldn’t settle for anyone less.”

**

2.

“What are you doing?” Brienne whispers, her broad, freckled hands examining Jaime’s burned and mangled right foreleg, stroking his torn wing.

“Dying,” he says.

“No,” she says, huddling close to him, shivering in the cold night air. “No, Jaime. You must live.”

The Targaryen dragon, Aerys – with his unmistakable silver-white scales and deep purple-blue eyes – had dived straight out of the sun, claws extended and acid-green wildfire pouring from his maw. Jaime had banked desperately, falling away and down to the right, but the edge of the fire had caught his wing and his foreleg, the green glow crawling over his scales and eating into his flesh. He’d _screamed_ , and his banking dive had turned into a wild downward spiral.

Brienne and the others of his crew had clung to the leather straps of his harness, wind whistling in their ears as they fell –

“Up, Jaime!” Arthur Dayne had called. “Up! We must stop him!”

Still screaming, Jaime had beat his wings desperately, trying to gain enough height to take on the Targaryen dragon. Aerys had spewed acid green wildfire again, but Jaime had evaded it and bulled in as close as possible, using his greater weight and strength to grapple with the other dragon, raking his hide with his claws and going for his throat. Locked together, the dragons had plummeted towards the ground, wings thrashing and long necks arching, their crews clashing with sword and pike and crossbow.

And then one of Aerys’ crew had crept up behind Arthur Dayne and run him through, killing him instantly. Jaime’s shrieks of rage had threatened to split the very skies.

“My captain is dead,” Jaime says miserably. “My wing is torn. My foreleg is –” His great wings droop, his green eyes hazy and filled with pain and misery. “What am I if I can’t fly? If I limp both on the ground and in the air?”

“You are Jaime,” Brienne insists. “The greatest of the Lannister dragons. The pride of Casterly Rock. You slew the great Targaryen, Aerys. They will call you the Kingslayer after this day.” She strokes his muzzle, whispering her praise into his ear. “You need only live, Jaime. Live, and bring me and your crew home.”

Jaime lifts his head and looks miserably about him. Perhaps three quarters of his crew have survived the battle; following Arthur Dayne’s death, Brienne – as the first lieutenant – is in command of the survivors. But they are still stranded thousands of miles from home, with Jaime their only hope of return.

“Live for what?” Jaime closes his eyes, blows out a long, hopeless breath. “There’s nothing to live for. Not anymore.”

“Live for revenge,” Brienne whispers. “Live for Arthur. Live for _me_.”

**

3.

Jaime forces himself to eat. Forces himself to heal.

And when his wing has healed enough that he can fly, he takes to the sky once more, beating clumsily at the air – no longer the magnificent, graceful creature he had once been, but stronger, somehow, filled with grim determination and renewed will to live.

Brienne takes Arthur Dayne’s place as his captain. On the long, dark nights when they finally rest, Brienne sits with Jaime, stroking his scales and murmuring encouragement.

As the campfires die down, her eyes start to droop and she curls into his side, drifting with long, slow breaths into deep, exhausted sleep.

In the morning, she wakes beneath the shelter of his wing. 


	31. 5 times Tywin fixed things like a boss (Modern AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: completely impulse-written! 
> 
> In my head this was originally "5 times Tywin rescued his kids from ridiculous situations" and it was going to be lighter and more absurd in tone, but anyway, please enjoy.

**1\. Cersei**

“Father,” Cersei said, sweeping into his private office and dismissing his aides with a wave, “We need to talk about my marriage to the prince. Elia Martell is on her last legs; surely it’s only a matter of time before Rhaegar is widowed, and then after a suitable interval –”

The Prime Minister of Westeros, Lord Tywin Lannister only sighed. “No,” he said.

She stared at him, her eyes wide.

“I’m afraid our handsome prince has a taste for Northern flowers,” Tywin said, pulling out an unmarked file and revealing black-and-white surveillance stills of Prince Rhaegar boarding a private jet bound for Dorne with an underage Lyanna Stark.

He’d had them ready for nearly a month now, just in case.

“If I were you, I’d give up this thought of becoming a princess,” he said, as her fingers clenched on the photographs. “You’ve got a fine mind. Why don’t you use it?”

**

**2\. Jaime**

“No,” Tywin said, “I won’t give you permission to enter the Kingsguard. And don’t even think of going over my head to the king.”

Jaime stared at him, his eyes wide.

“How did you know?” he asked, incredulous.

“I know everything,” Tywin said. And then, because Jaime looked so crestfallen, “Look. Why don’t you go over to Essos for a few years and come back when you’ve found yourself.”

That would give Tywin the time and space he needed to get rid of Aerys once and for all.

**

**3\. Tyrion**

“So,” Tyrion said, “there’s a sex tape.”

“Not anymore,” Tywin said.

Tyrion stared at him, his eyes wide.

“How did you –”

“It is my business to know these things,” Tywin said. “Besides, your friend Littlefinger already tried to blackmail me.”

“Oh? And how did that go?” Tyrion’s eyes gleamed.

Tywin allowed himself a small, wintry smile.

**

**4\. Tommen and Myrcella**

“What happened to Joffey, Grandpapa?” Tommen asked, all innocent curiosity. Ser Pounce and Lady Whiskers squirmed out of his arms and twined around Tywin’s ankles. Absently he petted them, enjoying their rumbling purring.

Myrcella stared at him, her eyes wide. Her curiosity was far sharper.

“He ate something that disagreed with him,” Tywin said. “Don’t worry. He won’t bother you or your sister any more.”

**

**5\. Brienne**

“My son is a fool,” Tywin said. “But he means well.”

She stared at him, her eyes wide. “You – you’re –”

He sighed. “Did Jaime not tell you about his family?”

“I met him on a Dornish beach,” she said. “He was unshaven, had a man-bun, and was teaching some kind of ancient martial art. The name _Lannister_ didn’t immediately spring to mind.”

“Well,” he said. “You’ve some common sense, even if he doesn’t.” 

**

**Bonus scenes:**

**Canon!Tyrion**

“It’s a good thing you came along when you did,” Tyrion said to the cut-throat, Bronn. “Your timing was impeccable.”

“Was it?” Bronn asked.

Tyrion squinted at him. “I’m not going to like this, am I.”

“You don’t need to pay me, little lordling,” the cut-throat said. “Your father’s already paid me more than enough.”

**+1 that doesn’t really fit, but I like the irony**

“Be careful in the bathroom, Dad,” Tyrion said. “You wouldn’t believe what we found in the renovations. A crossbow, of all things.”


	32. Evil King Jaime defeats Brienne in a duel and now she has to marry him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are there any here who would brave the Beauty’s sword?” King Jaime asked. “Though he will have to be a brave man indeed, after the rumours of her prowess.”
> 
> The crowd murmured behind her, but no voices rang out. He frowned at them. “What? Are there no gallant knights among you? I grant the lady is no beauty, and the Sapphire Isle no more than a godforsaken rock in the Narrow Sea, but even so –”
> 
> “Well, if none among you will fight her, then I will myself,” he said. 
> 
> **
> 
> Or; Evil King Jaime defeats Brienne in a duel and now she has to marry him.

1.

“Ah,” said the beautiful golden tyrant on the Iron Throne. “At last. The Maid of Tarth! We have heard so much of you.”

He beckoned to her. “Come forth, Brienne the Beauty.”

Brienne drew in a long breath. The throne room ought to have been dark and shadowed, but it was filled with bloody golden light, the stained glass window behind the throne bearing the crimson and gold lion of Casterly Rock. 

Brienne stepped forward. The light fell on her mismatched features, on her too-wide mouth, her twice-broken nose, her straw-like hair and her too-muscular body. She was trussed up in a horribly ill-fitting gown.

The courtiers behind her murmured amongst themselves, tittering softly. She ignored them, her eyes fixed on the throne.

King Jaime Lannister leaned forward. “Well, well. A maid who fights like a man, as tall and strong – and ugly – as a man.” He stood up, prowled down the steps of the dais, the light playing lovingly over him, until he stood before her. “Why are you here, Lady Brienne?”

He was not talking just to her; his voice was pitched up, and he was addressing the assembled court as much as Brienne. This was a show, she realised. A mummer’s play.

She swallowed. He was no more than an arm’s length away. She could reach out and seize him, wrap her arm around his throat, and – what? She would be cut down by the Kingsguard in an instant.

Drawing on all her courage, she went down on her knees before him, bowing her head. “Your grace,” she said, forcing the words out, “I have come to seek your pardon and beg for mercy.”

“What have you done, that I should pardon you?” he asked.

“I have taken up arms against the Iron Throne,” she said dully. “In my misguided and naïve youth, I was led astray by the traitors Renly Baratheon and Ned Stark.” The words burned, but she forced them out; she fought back tears as she remembered Renly’s smile, and Lady Catelyn’s kindness.

But they were both dead now, crushed by Lannister forces, and Brienne was alive – alive, and forced to carry on without them.

The king was silent for a long moment, drawing out the tension. Brienne clenched her fists, and forced her hands to relax; she drew in a long breath, and breathed out, trying to calm herself.

“And now that your father is dead and rival claimants seek to claim Tarth, you have come to seek my forgiveness,” the king said. “Well, you are honest, at least.”

The king’s right hand entered her vision. She stared at it, mesmerised.

The hand that had slain Aerys Targaryen. That had executed his treasonous sister-wife, Cersei, and his eldest son.

The hand that had slain Renly and Ned Stark, and cast Bran Stark from a tower window.

It was a beautiful hand: strong and well-formed, long, elegant fingers tipped with sword-callous, nails clean and neatly trimmed. There was an emerald ring on his finger, winking bright green.

She took his hand in hers, and pressed her lips to the ring.

“Rise,” he said, “and receive the kiss of peace.” 

She rose unsteadily to her feet, clumsy in her unaccustomed skirts, and stood still as he kissed her on both cheeks. His lips were soft, and his short golden beard rasped against her skin. They were standing so close that she could feel the warmth of his body, and she realised that he was only an inch or two shorter than her – and that he was quite extraordinarily handsome.

She felt the blotchy tide of colour rise in her cheeks, and stepped hastily away.

But his eyes – and his hand – held her. His gaze went past her to the court, watching on, eager to hear his pronouncement.

“A woman who has twice taken up arms against me may be tempted to do so a third time,” he said. “Before I grant you your island, I must ensure that this time you will remain loyal to the throne.”

“Your grace, I swear by all that is holy –”

“Sacred oaths mean nothing, Lady Brienne. I know that all too well. No. You must take a loyal husband.”

She swallowed. Opened her mouth. Shut it again. “Your grace, I have sworn that I will not –”

“You will not marry until you have been overcome by a man. Yes, I heard something of that. Well, what of it? If you insist, I can throw you to my guards –”

“I will not marry a man who cannot best me with a sword,” she said hoarsely, correcting him.

Silence fell. The courtiers rustled and whispered.

For the first time, she had the sense that he was considering her. Unlike Randall Tarly, who had dismissed her with such contempt, unlike old Humphrey Wagstaffe who had blustered and sworn to put her in her place, King Jaime’s eyes slowly lit with genuine interest, and with a slow, dancing amusement.

“And what will you do, Lady Brienne, if a man does overcome you – with a sword? Will you meekly consent to become his wife, putting aside your arms and armour for skirts and a spindle?”

He prowled around her. She stood with her face towards the Iron Throne, her skin crawling with awareness of him. She did not want him at her back. The thought of it was – 

“If that man can defeat me, I will be a loyal wife,” she forced out, her mouth dry, trying to make her voice as confident as her words. “But not otherwise.”

“And yet you must marry, or you will never return to Tarth.” He circled back in front of her, looked around the throne room with a show of interest. “Are there any here who would brave the Beauty’s sword?” he asked, pitching his voice up. “Though he will have to be a brave man indeed, after the rumours of her prowess –”

The rumours had run the length and breadth of the Seven Kingdoms. How she had held off the Lannister forces to allow Renly to escape from Bitterbridge. How she had gone mad after Lady Catelyn’s death, and it had taken ten men to subdue her. Many of the knights assembled in the throne room had seen her fight, or had faced her blade.

The crowd murmured behind her, but no voices rang out. The king frowned at them. “What?” he asked. “Are there no gallant knights among you? I grant the lady is no beauty, and the Sapphire Isle no more than a godforsaken rock in the Narrow Sea, but even so –”

Titters sprang up, and Brienne closed her eyes, wishing the ground would open up and swallow her.

“Well, if none among you will fight her, then I will myself,” he said.

**

2.

The next morning, the day dawned bright and clear.

Brienne took the time to prepare herself, drawing on her old breeches and tunic, and slowly – with the aid of a few squires in Lannister crimson and gold – clothing herself in her own suit of armour, returned to her by the king. Her old sword, that she had surrendered on the battlefield long weeks ago, had also been returned.

The sword and armour – and the squires – had arrived at the door of her chamber at first light, along with a note in scrawled untidy handwriting that said: _To ensure an even playing field._

She squared her shoulders, feeling steadier now with the old, familiar weight of armour enclosing her; her gauntleted fist closed on the hilt of her sword, the balance and heft welcome to her hand.

She closed her eyes and murmured a short prayer to the Warrior.

The squires waited in respectful silence.

When she opened her eyes again, she was ready.

“Let’s go,” she said.

The squires led her through the Red Keep to the practice yard at the foot of White Sword Tower. Even so early in the morning, a great crowd had assembled: courtiers and servants and smallfolk, all craning to catch a glimpse of the notorious Maid of Tarth, and to cheer on their king to a great victory.

All seven of the knights of the Kingsguard stood at various points around the yard, white sentinels in full armour; household guards in red cloaks and lion helmets held the crowd back with long spears and pikes. On a dais, an empty throne sat, the young princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen seated beside it, along with the members of the Small Council and the High Septon.

When a figure clad from head to toe in golden armour emerged, a coronet encircling his helmet and a crimson cloak falling from his shoulders, the crowd surged to its feet and let out a roar.

The king raised his hand to the crowd, turning in place to acknowledge them all.

He had come to power through oathbreaking and murder. He’d married his own sister, despite all the protestations of the Faith, and had fathered three children on her. He’d sat on the Iron Throne for fifteen years, and had crushed any and all who had sought to take it from him – including his wife and son; including Renly Baratheon and Ned Stark. And yet under his rule, the Seven Kingdoms had seen peace and prosperity and order.

At his gesture, trumpets rang out and a herald stepped forth, intoning that King Jaime of House Lannister, the First of His Name, fought the Maid of Tarth for the sake of her hand.

It was just like a tale, Brienne thought sourly. The cheering smallfolk would spread the story far and wide. Only in the songs, all knights are gallant and chivalrous, and all ladies beautiful.

The trumpets rang out again, and the fight began.

**

The crowd was roaring in the background. In the three years since she’d left Tarth, she’d never heard anything like it, not even the shouting and screaming of pitched battle. The atmosphere was almost overwhelming.

She knew her strength and her capability. She knew that her reach was greater than his, that she was more powerful; she could batter away at him, all brute strength and no subtlety. But he was said to be the best swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms. He had been one of Aerys Targaryen’s Seven, had trained with Ser Arthur Dayne, and Ser Gerold Hightower, and Prince Lewyn Martell of Dorne.

They tested each other, sparring a little at first, taking the other’s measure. He was quick and agile, his footwork sublime; he slid around her and cut at her knees, and she had to jump backwards, almost losing her balance. He _was_ every bit as good as the tales, and unlike many other men she had fought, he did not underestimate her.

When they began to fight in earnest, she felt her blood run swift in her veins. He was so quick, so elusive, and though she held her ground and refused to yield he kept attacking her, and it was all she could do to fend him off. The sun beat down on her armour, and sweat dripped into her eyes; she gripped her sword and threw herself forward, hacking and slashing, trying to batter that implacable golden figure into submission, breathing in great gasps as he met every blow and threw her back, going on the attack in turn.

The crowd faded into the background, the sound a distant roaring in her ears, and all she knew was the song of their blades, her heart pounding, as she fought an opponent unlike any she had ever faced before.

She must win this match. And yet, for the first time, as they stepped and lunged and stamped, their blades clashing with a shrill screech, sparks flying as they met, she began to realise that she might lose. That he might be better than her.

Her heart labouring in her chest, her breath gasping, she put forth one great effort, raining blows down on him – the rhythm of their dance going up and up and up in tempo – until with a great cry, she lunged at him, and he twisted his blade around hers and sent her sword flying from her hand –

Disarmed, she tried to fight on with her fists and her knees, grappling and wrestling with him, but eventually he bore her down to the packed earth, tore off her helmet, and placed his sword point over her eye.

The crowd roared and screamed, but all she could see was the faceless golden king, the iron-fisted tyrant who had killed Renly and Lady Catelyn –

“Do you yield?” he asked.

“No!” she snarled, thrashing in her armour, trying to regain her feet.

His armoured foot came down over her chest, forcing her down.

“Do you yield?” he asked again.

“No!” she cried, her arms grasping at the packed earth and straining against his weight. Her eyes filled with tears of rage. “Never.”

The crowd was so loud that no one could hear her, only him.

“You would rather die than marry me?” he asked. “You’d rather your island go to another?”

Slowly, moment by moment, her blood began to cool, the haze of battle clearing.

She did not want to marry the tyrant. But nor did she want to die, or to see the smallfolk of Tarth suffer.

“I yield,” she said sullenly.

**

3.

They were wed that very evening. The weight of the crimson and gold Lannister cloak on her shoulders was heavier than armour, the cloth wrapped around their wrists seemed as binding and restrictive as a bone corset, wrapping her round with vows and obedience.

She was taller than her husband, and probably stronger. But he could lift his hand to her and no man in the kingdoms would rebuke him. If she lifted her hand to him –

There was a merry feast, at which she ate no more than a few morsels. There was music and dancing and drunken well-wishing.

But there was no bedding ceremony, for which she could only be grateful.

When she was alone in her new chambers, she tore at the laces of her richly embroidered, horribly fitting gown, gasping for breath, ripping it off until she stood in her stockings and her shift, her eyes blurred with tears. 

The sound of the door opening brought her head up. She turned quickly, her hands coming up to cover herself.

The king – her lord husband, now – sauntered in, magnificent in crimson and gold silk and velvet, jewel-encrusted goblet of wine in hand.

“For you,” he said, holding the wine out to her. “To put some colour in your cheeks.”

She lifted the goblet to her mouth and drank, feeling the wine go straight to her head. A pleasant lassitude began to overtake her, and so she drank, again and again.

His hand on her wrist stopped her. Suddenly he was right in front of her, his hand warm on her skin, his body close enough to reach out and touch.

He was so beautiful, Brienne thought helplessly. So beautiful, and so cruel.

“One would think you were a maid in truth, wife,” he said. And when she flushed, her cheeks flaming blotchy red, a slow, wicked smile curled his lips. “Oh, really? Don’t tell me there were no strapping stable boys at Evenfall Hall. Or that during those long nights in Renly’s camp, no one ever sweet-talked his way into your tent.”

Her eyes blazed. “Some of them tried,” she said, clenching her fists. “They soon regretted it.”

She thought back on those nights, pitching her tent far from the centre of the camp and sleeping with one eye open, waking at every rustle and whisper. She had been so careful not to overindulge in wine, conscious always of the whispers the men thought she could not hear.

She had slept in full armour, with her sword cradled in her arms.

“Well, well,” he drawled, trailing his hand from her wrist to her elbow, then sliding his arm around her waist, pulling her against him. “That explains your eyes, wife.”

Startled, she put her hand on his chest, fending him off. “My eyes?”

“Blue as the Maiden’s,” he said. “And pure and chaste as –” he stopped to consider, smiling cynically. “As no other woman I have known.”

She flushed. “I am not –” Innocent, she thought. She had fought and killed, had grieved for love lost, had known both joy and despair.

“But you’ve never let a man between your thighs, have you.” He pulled her even closer, brushing his bearded cheek against hers, whispering hoarsely in her ear. “No man has touched you but me. No man _will_ ever touch you but me.”

She could feel him pressed against her, feel his – his _cock_ , roused and eager. She shuddered, her blood beating thickly in her veins. The wine. It had to be the wine.

His other hand came up to brush her hair out of her face, stroking over her cheek. He trailed his fingers over her lips, and she parted them instinctively, yearning – he put his soft lips on hers and kissed her. She stood stock still, astonished, and then slowly began to kiss him back; when he began to walk her over to the bed, she moved with him, her mind wreathed with confusion and wine fumes, with the feel of his body pressed against her, warm and strong.

Suddenly she was on her back on the bed, her legs falling open, and he was leaning over her.

“Well?” he asked, stroking his hand over her belly and down towards – towards –

She jack-knifed, bringing her knees together and rolling out from underneath him, scrambling off the edge of the bed and staring at him, wide-eyed.

“No,” she said. “No, I don’t –”

_Want to_ , she thought, biting her lip.

He only looked at her. Her husband. Her lord and master. The tyrant king of the Seven Kingdoms.

He had bested her with a sword.

And yet –

“I don’t want to,” she said stubbornly. It was as much truth as a lie.

“Where does that leave us?” he asked.

She didn’t know.

They stared at each other for a long time, on opposite sides of a divide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... this is not my best work. I set myself a bit of a smut-writing exercise, to be written in one day. This was meant to be a shameless PWP dub-con romp, but it twisted in my hands and came to a screeching halt. I do apologise for the lack of P. 
> 
> Please don't ask what happens next, because I don't know. I assume they work it out somehow?


	33. Jaime Lannister, football WAG (modern AU; soccer)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At their first home game, when her team takes to the field, she looks up into the stands to see _him_ there, dressed in a Storm Queens jersey, wearing dark sunglasses with a knitted beanie pulled over his too-distinctive golden curls. 
> 
> He cheers her on with his lazy, ironic grin, and though she scoffs there’s some part of her that is ridiculously warmed by his presence. 
> 
> Jaime Lannister. Captain of the Lannisport Lions. Cheering on the Stormlands women’s soccer team. Cheering on _her_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is nothing but impulse-written, un-beta'd, unrepentant fluff. Please enjoy?
> 
> Fair warning: I know absolutely nothing about soccer. Please forgive any glaring mistakes.

They meet at a pre-season charity media event at Riverrun stadium.

She recognises him instantly: Jaime Lannister, the captain of the Lannister Lions, a golden, beautiful media darling whose only saving grace is that he’s every bit as good as he thinks he is. He doesn’t recognise Brienne at all, but congratulates her with a condescending smile when she says she’s the captain of the Storm Queens, the Stormlands women’s team.

They exchange further words: Brienne is disdainful, and Jaime rude and insolent, looking her up and down with his sharp grin – even when she rises to her full height, taking great pleasure in standing two full inches taller.

He challenges her to a one-on-one game, just the two of them, out of sight of the media cameras. They head to a local high school oval, empty on a Sunday morning, and there, with only the ball between them, they glare at each other, showing off their best footwork, feinting and faking each other out, getting up in each other’s faces and indulging in behaviour that would have seen them immediately red-carded in an actual game – until they both go for the ball at once, their legs tangling, and they crash together to the ground.

Brienne stares at him from far too close, her adrenaline pumping, and discovers that his eyes are wicked green and fixed intently on her –

It’s a good thing they _are_ out of sight of the media cameras, for she peels his garish red and gold jersey over his head, kisses him furiously, and wrestles his white shorts down so that she can get at his cock. He strips off her blue jersey and scrabbles at her own white shorts in turn, slipping his hand between her legs, plunging two fingers into her.

She swears and curses him, furious at his lazy golden beauty, at his extraordinary skill, at the way he unerringly finds just the right spot to make her see stars. He mutters guttural praise in her ear – _You’re strong as an ox, wench, but Gods you can move_ – and kisses her, fierce and desperate, and thank the Gods he’s got a condom in his pocket –

They fuck right then and there, on the green grass of the oval, with the blue sky above and the ball abandoned and forgotten.

**

Cleaning themselves up, hair flying every which way and grass stains on their clothes, he gives her his number and tells her to call him.

“Not a chance in hell,” she says.

He only laughs. His smile is brighter than the sun, damn him.

**

A week later, they meet again in King’s Landing.

It’s an exhibition match, with the most popular players from the men’s and women’s leagues. She tries to get out of it, only to be reminded of her contractual obligations – and so when she meets her team, it’s to find Jaime Lannister her captain, welcoming her with an infuriating smile.

“You arranged this somehow, didn’t you?” she accuses him.

“Of course,” he says.

They partner on the field like they’ve been playing together forever. It’s like she can read his every signal, anticipate his every move, and together they have the crowd roaring on their feet, cheering and whistling their on-field chemistry.

When the final whistle blows he picks her up and whirls her around, laughing, his smile bright and joyful.

Afterwards, they go out for a post-game celebration with the rest of the team. Jaime looks at her, and she looks at him, and silently they slip away to her hotel.

Their off-field chemistry is as white-hot and furious as before.

**

When the season starts, there’s no time for such potentially ruinous indulgences.

Or so she thinks.

At their first home game, when her team takes to the field, she looks up into the stands to see _him_ there, dressed in a Storm Queens jersey, wearing dark sunglasses with a knitted beanie pulled over his too-distinctive golden curls.

He cheers her on with his lazy, ironic grin, and though she scoffs there’s some part of her that is ridiculously warmed by his presence.

Jaime Lannister. Captain of the Lannisport Lions. Cheering on the Stormlands women’s soccer team. Cheering on _her_.

When she scores the winning goal in the dying seconds of the game, he jumps up with the rest of the crowd, his face lit with excitement and a wild grin.

When she heads down to the dressing room, flushed and sweating and triumphant, he’s there, waiting for her, almost too handsome to be real. Flying on adrenaline and the roar of the crowd, she drags him into a private room to the cheers and catcalls of her teammates.

**

Perhaps inevitably, they’re papped: she opens her morning paper to find a photo of Jaime, dressed in his Storm Queens jersey, with his arm around her after a game.

 _Jaime Lannister, WAG in chief,_ the headline reads.

He only laughs. “My sister will be furious,” he says. “She put so much effort into snaring Robert.”

And so they become an item. He still comes to her games when he can, taking delight in mixing with the boyfriends, girlfriends, spouses and families of her teammates, and she goes to his – though she refuses to sit in the VIP family box.

The media attention is relentless, but the attention from his family is even worse: she’d known he was one of _the_ Lannisters, but it isn’t until she drives up with him to Casterly Rock that she truly begins to understand.

His father interrogates her. His sister terrifies her. His brother toasts her. His niece stares up at her with wide, adoring eyes and begs her for an autograph. His uncles and aunt and his many, many cousins welcome her to the family, all of them golden-haired and green-eyed and willing to welcome her for Jaime’s sake.

“My family isn’t nearly as overwhelming,” she says, when they take the ferry over to Tarth to visit her father and brother and younger sisters.

Still. Galladon insists on a ‘friendly’ game of backyard soccer, and her sisters giggle when Jaime strips off his shirt, flexing his muscles deliberately. Her father only shakes his head, but fondly, and hands him a beer afterwards.

They have a barbecue in the backyard, and sit around on her father’s comfortable chairs, talking and laughing late into the night. She sits beside Jaime, their hands entwined, and looks up at the stars, smiling.

**

They build their lives together despite playing on different coasts, making time for each other and putting each other first, sometimes squabbling but always laughing. Eventually Jaime quits playing and becomes the manager of the Lions, and Brienne joins a new women’s franchise on the west coast, and they buy a house together in Lannisport.

Every chance they get, they play together: fiercely competitive as always, revelling in each other’s skill.

[When their children are old enough, though, Brienne insists that they have to set a good example. “No more jostling,” she says sternly. “We have to be on our best behaviour. Children learn from watching their parents.”

Hand on heart, Jaime promises to be the soul of good sportsmanship.

She’s not sure whether to trust him or not – but he smiles at her, and she’s lost.] 


	34. Jaime and Hyle, flatmates with occasional benefits; JB endgame (modern AU; crack)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hyle put his hands in his hair and gave a manly cry of frustration. “You!” he growled. “You’re my problem. You and your – your everything! You keep waltzing around in your shirts and your jeans, with your perfect hair and your perfect teeth –”
> 
> “Ah.” Jaime nodded wisely. “I see. You want to fuck me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crack, crack, and nothing but crack. 
> 
> Thanks to all who encouraged and enabled this! You know who you are.

Hyle had always thought himself relatively good-looking. Blandly handsome, even. But that was before his new flatmate casually sauntered into his life, all golden curls and lazy smile, with cheekbones and a jawline that made Hyle almost weep with envy.

Hyle had always thought himself moderately witty. But that was before Jaime opened his mouth, and every. single. comment was barbed, ironic and sometimes even a devastating one-liner.

Hyle had always thought himself something of a catch. He was pretty well-off, dressed in designer clothes, his hair was fashionably cut and he kept himself in an okay shape at the gym.

But Jaime was so filthy rich he could afford to walk around unshaven in ancient jeans and faded t-shirts, his too-long hair casually pulled back. Whenever he stretched, his t-shirt rode up to reveal his washboard abs.

It was utterly demoralising. And the worst thing about it was that Jaime had no idea they were in any sort of competition, or even that Hyle couldn’t bear to look at him without grinding his teeth.

Jaime didn’t even know that Hyle existed. He kept calling him Kyle, and looked surprised whenever they met in the living room or the kitchen of their shared flat.

And that was the worst thing of all.

**

“Look, Kyle,” Jaime began.

“Hyle.”

“Look, Hyle,” Jaime said, lazy as ever. “I’m sensing some negative feelings from you. Is there something you want to tell me? Is this about Tyrion stealing your girlfriend?” He paused. “Was that you? Or was it my last flatmate.”

“No,” Hyle said, through gritted teeth. “There’s no problem. Absolutely none at all.”

Jaime stretched, the waistline of his jeans riding low. “Okay, then.” He flashed his perfect white smile. “Good talk, Kyle.”

And then he sauntered out.

**

He kept walking around, barefoot in low-riding jeans, his muscles flexing and his filthy rich assurance maddening.

It was more than flesh and blood could bear.

**

Finally, Hyle reached his breaking point.

Jaime walked through the door wearing a tight white t-shirt with black jeans and 2000 dragon sunglasses. He smelled of the outdoors, crushed grass, and expensive cologne.

The first thing he did was go straight to the fridge, open the door and stand there, drinking straight from the carton of orange juice.

He even drank juice from the carton in style.

Hyle couldn’t take it any more.

He strode up to Jaime, snatched the carton away and threw it to the floor, and shoved Jaime back against the fridge, crowding him.

The next moment he was slammed hard against the kitchen bench, his wrist twisted painfully behind him, crying out in pain – “Ah, Gods, sorry, sorry, sorry!”

Jaime released him and stepped back.

“What the hell was that?” Jaime asked, seeming genuinely curious.

Hyle put his hands in his hair and gave a manly cry of frustration. “You!” he growled. “You’re my problem. You and your – your _everything_! You keep waltzing around in your shirts and your jeans, with your perfect hair and your perfect teeth –”

“Ah.” Jaime nodded wisely. “I see. You want to fuck me.”

Hyle’s mind blanked. He opened his mouth, closed it, and managed to say: “…what?”

Jaime only sighed. He closed the fridge door, strolled over to the couch and dropped onto it, sprawling with golden leonine grace. His jeans-clad legs were spread wide.

He looked at Hyle, green eyes filled with mild interest. “Well?” he asked. “There’s a documentary on the Age of Heroes on soon, so you’ll have to get a move on –”

Hyle gave in to the inevitable. He crossed over to Jaime and went to his knees before him, hands reaching for his lion-emblazoned belt-buckle.

**

Things became – a little strange, after that.

Every now and then, Jaime would look at Hyle with that same mild interest, and Hyle would get to put his hands on those muscles, that golden skin, that impossible jawline. Sometimes Jaime even returned the favour, his hands big and calloused, and Hyle would feel his eyes roll back in his head, overwhelmed.

But Jaime still – _still_ – insisted on calling him Kyle.

**

And then one night, determined to prove his manliness, Hyle went out to a club and brought home a huge, rather homely woman named Brienne. She moved away when he went to kiss her and looked a bit irritated when he put his hand on her knee. Still, she came home with him all the same.

But then – _then_ – when Hyle fumbled open the door, the lights were on and Jaime was sprawled on the couch, rumpled and unshaven, reading a magazine on ancient Westerosi weaponry. He looked up when Hyle led Brienne inside.

Brienne’s eyes met Jaime’s. Their eyes locked.

And Hyle was instantly forgotten.

**

So. Well.

That was how Hyle found himself all alone on the couch, as his too-perfect flatmate-with-benefits and the woman he’d picked up to prove himself went into Jaime’s room and slammed the door behind them.

Sighing, he got up and fixed himself a drink. Turned on the television. Put on his noise-cancelling headphones and tried desperately to block out the ecstatic cries coming from Jaime’s room.

In the end, he gave up and went to bed, disconsolate.

**

Jaime had the gall to thank him in the morning. 


	35. 5 x Brienne & Tywin (modern AU; one canon-divergence scene)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5 times Tywin approved of Brienne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I had a rush of blood to the head this morning, and set out to see if I could write Brienne/Tywin. Eventually the rush of blood cooled, and I found myself writing Brienne & Tywin instead. (For those who are curious, the +1 is my sole crack attempt.)
> 
> #2 was inspired by Michael Caine's quote about Jaws 4: "I have never seen Jaws 4, but by all accounts it is terrible. However, I have seen the house that it built and it is terrific."
> 
> Re: #3: I'm not ruling out a return to some kind of variation on the theme of chef!Brienne and patron/owner Tywin, with Jaime sticking his nose in and riling Brienne up.

**1.**

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t make her COO,” Tywin said. “She’s got more good sense and initiative than the three of you combined.”

Cersei looked aghast. “She’s an outsider! A nobody from some godforsaken rock in the Narrow Sea. She’s not one of us, she’s not _family_ –”

Tyrion coughed. Cersei rounded on him. “You know something, don’t you,” she hissed. “Perhaps you’d like to share it with the rest of us, little brother?”

“Trust me, sweet sister,” Tyrion said, “there’s nothing I’d like more. But the news isn’t mine to share.”

Cersei looked at Tywin. Her eyes went wide, her face lost all colour, and she almost staggered, grasping at the arm of her chair for support. “No,” she whispered.

Jaime winced.

“She _is_ a Lannister, Cersei,” Tywin announced. “She and Jaime were married this afternoon.”

**

**2.**

When Brienne was 24 years old, a Captain in the 9th Stormlands Division, she saved the life of Tywin Lannister, the Hand of the King.

He stared at her with his cold, green-gold eyes, and his thin mouth seemed to curl up for the merest instant –

“You have done me a great service today,” he said. “And Lannisters always pay their debts.”

She had not saved him for any thought of gain or reward. She was a proud soldier of the Seven Kingdoms, not a mercenary.

“I can always find suitable employment for a woman of your – skills. You will not find me ungenerous,” he assured her.

Thus was born a lucrative patron-client relationship that lasted until the end of her time in the military, and even beyond. When she set up a private security firm, Lanniscorp became her biggest client. He sent her in to deal with blackmailers, his womanising son-in-law and kidnappers who had taken his son Jaime for ransom.

“How can you bear to work for him?” her friends Margaery and Sansa asked.

“It’s paid for my mortgage and the restoration of Evenfall Hall,” she answered them, not in the least ashamed.

**

3.

“The gentleman at table 8 sends his regards to the chef,” Renly, the maitre d’, said.

Brienne wiped her hands on a dish towel and peered through the doors to the kitchen, seeing an older man dining alone, all hooded eyes and closely cropped beard.

“Gods,” she said. “Is that –”

“Tywin Lannister, yes,” Renly confirmed. “The most vicious food critic in the city.”

A collective shiver went through the whole kitchen. Everyone knew what Tywin Lannister had done to _Winterfell_ , Robb Stark’s first restaurant in King’s Landing.

“He sent his regards then too, didn’t he?” Pod wrung his hands. “But they say he was being sarcastic, at the time. Ironic, even.”

“What tone of voice did he use?” Brienne asked.

“Don’t worry,” Renly grinned. “It was a low, reverent tone. He looked – he was _smiling_. Just a little.”

The next day there was a glowing review in the King’s Landing Times. Her reservations tripled overnight.

And _he_ came back as well, and when asked for his order said that he trusted the chef to serve whatever she thought fit.

**

4.

“I have sworn not to marry a man who cannot defeat me with a sword,” Brienne said, her knuckles clenched on her sword hilt.

Tywin Lannister, the lord of Casterly Rock, raised his brows and looked incredulous. He turned to her father. “Lord Selwyn. Do you truly expect me to abide by this ridiculous condition?”

“Brienne, child –” her father began.

Brienne only put up her chin.

Her prospective bridegroom narrowed his eyes at her. “Why insist on defeating all comers yourself, when you have a household guard?”

He waited for her answer, as if he were genuinely curious.

“That would not be honourable, my lord,” she choked out, her mouth dry with apprehension.

“Another noble fool,” he said sourly. “Well. You will be well-suited, at least.”

“ _If_ you can defeat me,” Brienne insisted stubbornly.

“My dear child,” Lord Tywin said, in a withering tone. “If _I_ were the one seeking your hand, I would send my household knights in my place. Happily for us all, Jaime is just as foolishly chivalrous as you.”

**

5.

“Who’s this, Dad?” Jaime asked, all casual insouciance.

The strong, freckled hand resting lightly on Tywin’s arm suddenly clenched. However, Ms Tarth’s expression, at least, was calm and slightly amused.

“Jaime, this is Ms Brienne Tarth, our new head of Finance,” Tywin said. “Ms Tarth – my eldest son, Jaime.”

Ms Tarth did not lack for confidence, or at least the appearance of it. There was steel under her unfortunate exterior, and potential – if she could stand up to his family.

Hence inviting her to Casterly Rock for Christmas. If she could survive Cersei, Jaime and Tyrion at their drunken and back-biting worst; if she could navigate Kevan and Genna and all of his nieces and nephews, then the corporate infighting at Lanniscorp would be child’s play.

“ _Ms_ Tarth,” Jaime said, with his most infuriating smile. “You surprise me. I thought –”

“I know what you thought, _Mr_ Lannister,” she retorted. “You needn’t go on.”

Their gazes locked. They drew themselves up to their full heights. And before Tywin’s fascinated eyes, battle was joined.

**

+1 (If you're curious about my sole attempt at Brienne/Tywin, here's a little twist on something I created earlier. If you'd rather not know, stop reading now *grins*)

Jaime’s eyes widened. “Brienne. Please. Tell me you didn’t.”

“I did.” She lifted her chin. “What of it? He is a powerful, charismatic man with a great deal of experience. And you can't deny that he's -”

He put his hands over his ears. 

“Jaime,” she said. “Stop being dramatic.”

"Dramatic!" he clutched at his hair and made a hissing sound. "You can’t just tell me that you've slept with my father -"

"Oh come on! It was ages ago. After I had that fling with Cersei in college. Long before I ever met you."

"But - but -"

She sighed. Put her hand on his cheek and pressed her brow against his, so they stared into each other's eyes. "Jaime," she said. "Yes, I may have slept with your father -"

"And my sister!" 

"Yes, and your sister. But that was nearly ten years ago, and since then -" she nudged him a little, smiling. "Trust me to know my mind, Jaime. It's _you_ that I want, now." 


	36. 5 x Selwyn tried to set Brienne up with various Lannisters (modern AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I met a bloke at the pub last night,” her father said cheerfully.
> 
> (5 times Selwyn tried to set Brienne up with various Lannisters)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For aliveanddrunkonsunlight, cheerful encourager of crack impulses.

**ONE**

“I met a bloke at the pub last night,” her father said cheerfully. “A cashed-up mainlander. He’s just bought one of those wildly overpriced beachfront cottages.”

“Oh really?” Brienne sighed, wishing that her father would stop trying to set her up. It invariably ended in disaster, like the ‘perfectly nice boy’ who had turned out to be gay, or the man who had taken one look at her and dropped his bunch of roses in horror.

“His name’s Jaime. Next time you come over, I’ll introduce you.”

**

Her father introduced them. 

It was a disaster. Mutual antagonism at first sight. They fought like cats and dogs, snapping and snarling and almost coming to blows.

* * *

**TWO**

“Listen,” her father said. “My current – er – companion, Genna, has a son about your age.”

Brienne winced, remembering his last attempt at matchmaking. “So long as he’s nothing like Jaime.”

“No, no, poor Cleos is a nice enough chap,” her father said soothingly, “though a bit weak-chinned. Still. Can’t hold that against him, I suppose?”

**

Filled with misgivings, Brienne agreed to meet him.

Halfway through dinner at the local pub, Jaime showed up, strolled over to them and sat down right at their table. “You don’t mind, do you?” he asked.

Cleos sputtered incoherently but Jaime blithely ignored him. He turned towards Brienne, not so coincidentally giving Cleos his shoulder, and provoked her into a shouting match that got them both thrown out of the pub.

* * *

**THREE**

“Have you met Daven?” her father asked. “He’s just got out of the army. Very interesting fellow.”

**

Daven proved to be a big, burly blond, cheerful and good-natured, with laughing brown eyes and a snub nose. Strangely enough, he looked like Jaime, a little.

He had just got out of the army, yes - but Jaime had been in the elite Kingsguard. He was very interesting, yes - but he lacked Jaime’s edge.

* * *

**FOUR**

“Twin sisters,” her father said. “Just like Arianne and Alysanne. Identical. The elder is married – to a man – but the younger, Cerenna, is interested in meeting you.”

“Dad,” Brienne pinched her nose. “I’ve told you. I’m not interested in women. It would be easier if I were.”

**

Still. She agreed to meet her for a drink anyway.

Strangely enough, Cerenna looked very much like – well, like Jaime. The same golden curls, the same green eyes, the same sharp, clever smile.

“Oh, Jaime told me all about you, and told me to look you up!” she said. “He’s my big cousin, you know. He and my brother Daven are close. I suppose deep down, Jaime even secretly likes poor cousin Cleos –” and here she pulled a face – “even if he does look like a weasel.”

Brienne thought back on the strange resemblance she had felt on meeting Daven, and the familiarity with which Jaime had taken over the table from Cleos.

“You’re all related?” she asked, just to make sure.

“Of course!” Cerenna smiled brightly. “We’re all Lannisters. Well. Except Cleos. But we won’t hold that against him, I suppose.”

* * *

**FIVE**

“He’s very respectable,” her father said. “Or was that respected? Never mind. A widower. Lost his wife many years ago and hasn’t looked at another woman since.”

“Dad,” Brienne said.

“Quite brilliant too, I’ve heard. They say he – well. He’s very good with money.”

“Dad,” she said. “You don’t need to set me up anymore.”

“And he’s had a long and distinguished career at the highest levels of the government –” her father paused. “What was that?”

* * *

**\+ ONE**

“Are you sure?” her father asked anxiously.

“Yes, Dad, I’m sure.” 

“Because last time, you know, the two of you almost –”

Brienne winced. “Yes, I know, but that was before.”

“Well, I’m sure you know your own mind. But if that fellow causes you the least harm, I’ll come down on him like –”

“Yes, Dad, I know,” she said patiently. “And I’m thankful for it. But just think of it like this – your matchmaking finally worked.”

There was a moment of silence. “That’s true, isn’t it?” Her father rubbed his hands together and smiled with cheerful triumph. “Well, well. Now I can turn my mind to Galladon and your sisters!”

Silently apologising to her siblings, Brienne slipped away and went out to meet Jaime, leaving him to his matchmaking schemes.


End file.
